


Grass Stains

by Laiquilasse



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha John, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Friends to Lovers, Gaslighting, Growing Up Together, Kid John, Kid Sherlock, M/M, Omega Sherlock, Sexual Assault
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-03-13 12:32:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 24,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13570656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laiquilasse/pseuds/Laiquilasse
Summary: The rarest of all gender types as an omega boy, Sherlock is used to spending all of his time around other omegas - all of whom are girls. His world is turned upside down in the best way when new neighbours move in next door, and he meets a boy called John Watson.But although their friendship is accepted when they are children, things cannot stay the same as they start to grow up.And Sherlock finds out his rare status means that his future may have already been decided for him... no matter who he really wants to be with.Rating will change as the fic goes on.





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock vaguely remembered sitting in the doctor’s office as the man behind the desk spoke to his mother. He remembered the man had a big poster of a skeleton on the wall, and Sherlock had got down and wandered over to it to name as many of the bones as he could, which was a lot.

He sort of remembered the conversation between the doctor and his mother, but the significance of it would not dawn on him until several years later.

“The pelvic MRI confirms it,” the doctor smiled. “Congratulations.”

Violet Holmes sat back. “But… he’s a boy!”

“It is extremely rare, yes, but not unheard of. It does happen, and, as you can see…” the doctor passed over photos of the scan Sherlock had had the day before. “Uterus, and ovaries… he’s an omega. Count yourselves lucky that you found out before he hit puberty.”

Sherlock looked back at the skeleton poster. He’d had to come into hospital with a small water infection that wasn’t clearing up, and a nurse had asked his mother a question when he was being examined, and the next thing he knew he was being put in a big white tube so they could take a photo of his insides.

It was all very boring.

“So… what do we do? We’ve never had a boy omega in our family,” Violet was saying.

The doctor fished some leaflets out of his desk. “The usual course of action is to send the omega to an all-omega school, so they can be amongst their own, where they’re not so different.”

“But he would be the only boy.”

“Only in his primary gender. And he’s getting older, isn’t he? He’ll be six, soon?”

Violet nodded.

Sherlock looked back at them. He wondered when they’d be allowed to go home.

 

*

 

A lot of things changed, after that.

Sherlock went from being let loose through the house and garden to being treated as though he was made of glass. He was encouraged to take up music (which he excelled in), and to play with dolls (which got tiresome after a few hours), and even to spend more time with his mother in the kitchen, or when she was cleaning. He didn’t quite understand why, and when he asked, no one answered him properly.

But the biggest change came when school started again in January, and Sherlock went to a new school.

There wasn’t an all-omega school close enough for him to attend day to day, so he was sent to an all-girls boarding school a couple of hours drive away.

Sherlock was the only boy.

It stayed like that for the rest of his primary school years.

Like all children, none of them took much notice of their differences until they were pointed out. And a few peaceful (if not actually happy) years passed before the pupils at St Bede’s were sat down in a science class, and given a rudimentary introduction to sex education and growing up. The lesson was age-appropriate and tasteful, and the girls giggled happily as they watched a film about how their bodies would change when they were teenagers.

Ten year-old Sherlock put up his hand when it was over.

The teacher told him to put it down again. “See me at the end, Sherlock,” she said.

Sherlock did go to see her when the class was dismissed for free time. She handed him a small, thin, book, clearly from several decades ago.

“This was all we could get hold of that’s suitable for your age,” she said, apologetically. “If you have any questions, Sherlock, you can always ask me, or another teacher, or your parents.”

Sherlock nodded, and thanked her. He took the book back to his dormitory, and eschewed dinner in favour of reading it. He learned how he, like the girls, would get taller, get hair in various places, and gain some body fat here and there. His own ovaries would develop, and he would be capable of having babies. The set-up was a little different, with some of Sherlock’s anatomy being on the outside, but that didn’t bother him. He knew he was a boy, and that meant he did some things differently.

He closed the book, and put it under his pillow when his dorm-mates came in that night. They were still giggling about the lesson that day, and Sherlock listened to them, cradling the knowledge he had, and no one else did.

He was special.

At school, they knew he was special.

With a jolt, he realised the school summer holidays were close. Which would mean going home for eight whole weeks. Going home was never as nice as school. At home, they coddled him and treated him like a treasure, which wasn’t what Sherlock wanted, at all. But that’s how his parents thought boy-omegas should be treated. He couldn’t convince them otherwise, and it was boring and dull to try.

When the holidays rolled around, his father came to collect him.

“Had a good term, darling?”

“Mm,” Sherlock nodded, looking out of the window as the countryside blurred past. “One more year.”

“Until secondary, yes… We should start looking at schools soon,” his father drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.

Sherlock didn’t bother asking what sort of school. He expected secondary school to be a repeat of primary, only with bigger girls in it. Maybe the lessons would be more interesting, though.

“The house next door sold,” his father said as they joined the motorway. “New neighbours any minute now.”

“Good,” Sherlock snorted. He’d intensely disliked the old neighbours, who had a huge dog and no idea how to train it, and their three alpha sons, who were a menace to the whole street.

“Might be some girls for you to play with.”

Sherlock resisted the urge to knuckle his forehead. “Might be.”

“A lad for Mycroft to get to know would be nice, too. Although the chances of him actually making friends with someone are slim to none…”

Sherlock smiled. His older alpha brother found it very difficult to make friends, or even to get along with anyone who wasn’t himself. Sherlock didn’t know if this was because Mycroft was an alpha, or simply because he was a pig-headed waste of good space.

The car eventually pulled up on the driveway, and Sherlock let himself out before his father could come around and open it for him. He did let the man get his case out of the boot of the car, however. He looked at the house next door.

It looked the same as ever, only there were no curtains hanging up in the windows, and Sherlock could tell the lampshades had been taken from the ceiling, leaving only single hanging bulbs.

“When do you think the new –” he started to ask, just as a removals van thundered up the street. It mounted the pavement, and crashed down onto the road again, outside the house next door.

A smart 4x4 followed it, pulling onto the drive. One of the back doors opened, and a girl got out, pulling a face at her new home.

Sherlock turned away, and went inside. He wasn’t interested in another girl to play with, and this one looked too old to be interested in him, anyway. He followed his dad inside, and shut the door behind him.

 

*

 

“Hey, John, wake up,” John’s dad shook his knee. “John, matey, we’re here.”

“Uhn,” John rubbed his eyes. “Here?”

“New house, idiot,” Harry said, unbuckling her brother’s seat-belt for him. “Only you could fall asleep during a one-hour journey.”

“It was relaxing,” John yawned. He got out of the car, and stretched his legs, his knees knocking together. “Huh,” he looked at the new house. “Looks nice.”

“And I’ve just seen a little boy next door,” his dad said. “Just gone in, with his dad. You could call for him later.”

“Or now,” John said, seeing an opportunity to get out of unpacking when he saw one. He grabbed his backpack from the footwell, and pulled it on. “See you later?”

“Don’t go too far,” his mum said. “You don’t know this area yet, give yourself time to explore.”

“I will.” John gave her a wave, and dodged around the removals men, and through the gate to the house next door. He looked for a bell, and didn’t find one, and instead banged on the foot with a fist.

 

*

 

“That’ll be the new neighbours,” Violet said, untying her half-apron from around herself. “And I’ve not had a chance to finish making them a cake, or…”

“Calm down, darling,” her husband said. “They’re likely just coming to introduce themselves. We can call around properly once the vans have gone.” He opened the door –

To thin air.

“Hi,” a voice said from around waist-height.

Siger Holmes looked down. “Oh, hello,” he said, looking at a small, unwashed, blond boy, wearing shorts and a red backpack almost as big as he was.

“Does a boy live here?” John asked.

“Er, yes. Two, in fact,” Siger said, not knowing quite how to deal with a child who hadn’t addressed him as ‘sir’, and looked as though he might run between his legs and straight into the hall.

“Can they come out to play?” John beamed.

“Er…” Siger’s train of thought was interrupted by someone brushing past him.

Sherlock peered around him at John.

John brightened, and grinned, showing too-big front teeth he hadn’t grown into, and a couple of gaps besides. “Are you coming out to play?” he asked.

Sherlock has never been called for a day in his entire life. He knew, instinctually, that to ask his father for permission was what he ought to do, but at the same time, he knew it would result in a ‘no’. So he kept his eyes on the boy in front of him. “…yes.”

“Come on, then,” John took a step backwards, and Sherlock stepped out of the doorway. “I was going to explore the garden, first,” he said. “We didn’t get much chance to look at it when we came to see the new house, and it looks pretty big. I’m going to build a den in it, and maybe a tree-house, and we should make some bug hotels, and…” he scratched his head. “I’m John. What’s your name?”

“Sherlock,” said Sherlock.

“Do you like dens?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen one.”

“What?” John gawped at him. “Ok, you have to help me make one, then. We’ll make it so amazing. All we need is some wood, and some tarpaulin, and maybe some plastic or something, and some nails, and a hammer…”

Sherlock could barely speak. If this was what boys were like, they were even more chatty and talkative than girls. And they were dirty. And they had black under their fingernails.

Sherlock touched self-consciously at his pink polo-shirt, and undid the top button. He thought he might have a lot to learn, this summer.

John led them through the gate, and into his new house.

 

*

 

“That’s my mum and dad,” John said, carelessly, as they went through the hall and dodged around some adults. “I’ve got a sister, as well, but she’s not very fun. We moved here for Dad’s job. He’s a soldier. There’s a base around here, and he’s going to be training new soldiers.” He stopped to let some removal men carry a sofa in front of them, and looked at Sherlock.

The little boy was very smart, and pale, and looked a bit scared, but maybe he was just being polite. He needed to do some playing.

“How old are you?” John asked.

“Ten.”

“Oh, same as me,” John grinned again. “Right, let’s get this…” he went into the living room and tipped one of the huge cardboard boxes over, emptying what was, fortunately, soft linens onto the floor. He put the box over his head. “Come on,” he said to the dark. “Lead me outside, and we’ll use this as Phase One of the den.” He held his hand out.

Thin fingers got him around the wrist, and pulled. Sherlock gave a sort of giggle, and John giggled back.

“I don’t know where outside is,” Sherlock laughed.

“Well, where is it in your house?”

“Oh, right.”

“Oh, go through the kitchen.”

The two boys staggered and giggled their way through the house, the enormous box still over John’s head like the top of an egg. They went through the kitchen, and John took the box off long enough to take a knife from the block that had been set on the side.

“Is that safe?” Sherlock asked.

“I’m not going to do anything dangerous,” John said. He dragged the box the rest of the way out of the kitchen door, and into the garden. The boys found a sunny spot beneath an old apple tree, and set the huge box down.

“Now, we just need to cut a door, and a window,” John said, holding up the serrated knife. “Do you have a pen?”

“No,” Sherlock patted his pockets.

“You should put shorts on, you’re going to sweat and get grass all over your knees,” John said, looking at Sherlock’s school trousers.

“This is my uniform,” Sherlock said as John started cutting the box. “I only got home today.”

“Oh, you go to boarding school?” John said. “What’s that like?”

“It’s ok…”

“I’d hate it, I think,” John said. “Are there lots of rules?”

“No more than home.” Sherlock watched John punch the door out of the box. They would have to crawl to get inside it, if that was the plan.

“And now, a window,” John said, cutting a sort of squashed oval out for light. “And there we go, one den. It’s not much, but it’s a start. Until we can build something more longer-lasting.” He stuck the knife in the soil, up to the handle. “Safety first,” he said, mirroring what his dad was always saying. John had the freedom to roam, but he had to remember to stay safe, that was the rule.

He crawled into the box, and Sherlock crawled after him.

It was dark, and gloomy, and warm, and the two boys got the giggles again as they sat close together, watching the house activity through the window John had cut out. Boxes were being opened, windows put on the latch to air out the rooms, and Sherlock’s house looked very still, beside it.

“I think I’m going to like it, here,” John said. He looked at Sherlock, in the dark. “Who are your friends?”

“I… don’t have any here, really,” Sherlock said. “My… everyone goes home in the holidays from school.”

“That sucks.”

“It’s not fun.”

“So, it’s just you and your brother? What’s he like?”

“A pain in the arse.” Sherlock put a hand over his mouth. “Sorry.”

John laughed. “You said ‘arse’.”

“Yeah…” Sherlock went red.

“What else can you say?”

“Um…”

“Crap.”

“Damn?”

“Shit,” John whispered, giggling again.

“Um…” Sherlock groped for a swear-word. “Bloody hell.”

“Fuck,” John said, and Sherlock gasped.

“John!”

“Yeah, that was bad,” John winced. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s ok. I’ve only heard grown-ups say that. When they thought I wasn’t listening.”

“Grown-ups say a lot when they think you’re not listening,” John said.

“Mm,” Sherlock hummed. He looked at the boy beside him. He was so unlike any other child Sherlock had met, and yet… Sherlock felt like the weird one.

John felt him looking, and smiled at him. “You know what this den needs?”

“To be bigger?”

“Yeah. And snacks, too,” he crawled out. “Come on, let’s go see if Mum’s left any crisps unattended.”

 

*

 

That was the first day they spent together. By the end of it, Sherlock’s trousers were stained and torn, John had a streak of mud down his face, and the two boys had made a start on a rudimentary den made of old fence panels and nails stolen from John’s dad’s toolbox. Sherlock’s parents didn’t know what to make of him when he went home at supper-time looking like an urchin, beaming from ear to ear, his curls on end.

It was, they decided, good for him to spend some more time outdoors, even if it was with a rough alpha boy who didn’t seem to understand that pre-10am on a Sunday was not an ideal time to call. John Watson would be a good friend for Sherlock.

Even if it would only ever be temporary.


	2. Chapter 2

It was the best summer holiday Sherlock had ever had.

John would come around every morning like clockwork, until Sherlock started anticipating him and they met on the pavement between their houses, backpacks on and full of things they would need (sandwiches, string, pocket knives, magnifying glasses, empty jam jars and so on). They’d check over the den (now a full-finished little hut in John’s back garden – and waterproofed, since John’s dad had taken it upon himself to make it slightly more secure and safe than the two ten-year-olds had bothered with), maybe spend a while there if the morning was misty or damp, and then take off via the loose fence panel in John’s garden, and run down the embankment to the copse at the foot of the hill, and then into the woods that encircled the park.

They’d spend the day climbing the trees, picking poisonous mushrooms and capping them into jam jars, trapping beetles, and playing pretend games in a way that boys who are of a certain age begin to suspect they’re too old for, but as long as no one else was watching, they could be pirates and explorers and detectives all they liked.

It was paradise for the two of them, and the only thing that would stop them heading to it was torrential rain.

They were in John’s bedroom. They spent most of their indoor time at John’s house. Sherlock had invited John into his room once, then gotten embarrassed by the immaculate dolls’ house, and the cookery set still in the box. John had politely not said anything, but they both preferred his room – there were posters of football players on the walls, and a big map of the world with pins in it, and John’s floor was covered in socks and books instead of fancy rugs. He also had a television in his room, and, most importantly, a computer.

“It says the result should develop in about ten minutes,” John said, looking at what Sherlock was doing. They were blood-typing them both. John had gone first, and his thumb was throbbing a bit. He suspected they should have sterilised the pin, first.

“They used to think that blood type corresponded to gender,” Sherlock put a plastic lid on a petri dish. “They used to try and type children as soon as they were born.”

“Well, that’s stupid,” John snorted. “It says here that the most common types are O and A, and that would mean there were loads of alphas and omegas running around, and hardly any betas. And I don’t think that’s right.”

“No, it’s not,” Sherlock said. “There’s something like ten per cent of the population are omegas.” He glanced at John. “And not many boy ones.”

John didn’t appear to be phased by this. “So, blood type means nothing, then?”

“Only matters if you need a transfusion.”

John examined his thumb. “I think I need some Savlon.”

“Ok, yours is done…” Sherlock pulled the little indicator strip out. “Says your blood type is… O+.”

“Common as muck,” John grinned, pushing his chair back. “What’s yours?”

“Looks like AB+, but I got blood on the card, so I can’t really tell.”

John went into the bathroom and came back with antiseptic cream, and plasters. “Next time,” he said, taking Sherlock’s wrist and giving his thumb a wipe with some wet tissue, “we can do something with less blood.” He blobbed some Savlon on the puncture mark, and stuck a plaster around his friend’s thumb. “Here, you do me,” he handed the stuff over, and Sherlock copied him.

The casual touches meant nothing except innocent trust to the two children, who were both physically immature, and cared only about making their friend feel safe, and better.

“So, what’s it like, being an omega?” John asked, when his own thumb was dressed.

Sherlock shrugged. “I don’t know. What’s it like being an alpha.”

John pulled a face. “I don’t know. It’s just… me.”

“Well, that’s the same for me. I don’t know what it’s like.” Sherlock capped the cream. “Except I have to go to a girls’ school.”

“What? Why?”

“Because omegas are usually girls,” Sherlock said, going red. “And that’s… what happens.”

John stared. “But you’re not a girl… are you?”

“No!”

“Ok, so why go to a girls’ school?”

“I don’t know.” Sherlock shrugged, and the boys stared at each other, the stupidity of adult decision making like a giant mystery. “It’s ok, though. It’s not… bad.”

“Do they make you do girl stuff?”

“…what’s girl stuff?”

“Like…” John looked around his very masculine bedroom for inspiration. “Like, sewing, or whatever.”

Sherlock pulled a face. “Your dad sews, John. He was sewing your cadet badges on yesterday.”

“Ok, that’s fair,” John said.

“We just have lessons. English, Maths, Science… it’s just school.”

“If it’s just school I don’t see why you can’t come to the village school with me,” John said. “You could ask.”

“They’ll only say ‘no’.”

“But you’ll be gone.”

“Only until Christmas.”

“But I’ll miss you.” John folded his arms.

Sherlock looked up from where he’d been picking at John’s duvet. “What?”

“I’ll miss you,” John repeated. “You’re my best friend.”

Something exploded in Sherlock’s mind, and he didn’t quite know how to deal with it. He had some friends at school, but no one close. He’d heard some of the girls call one another their best friend, and he knew it was something special, and he knew he was no one’s, not yet.

But now he was John’s, and he didn’t know how to deal with it.

“Um…”

John didn’t appear to have noticed the small crisis Sherlock was having. “Shall we go and get some lunch?”

“Yeah, ok,” Sherlock said, jumping down off the bed, and following John down the stairs. He felt strangely fluffy and like cotton wool, inside. He was John’s best friend.

 

*

 

Later that night, Sherlock realised he hadn’t said it back.

He pulled on his dressing gown, and got out of bed, creeping out of his room and down the stairs. The house was all in darkness. He undid the back door, and slipped out into the garden, lifting the wobbly bit of fence he used to sneak into John’s garden. It was a quick (though cold) climb up onto the wheely bins, and then up onto the conservatory roof. It was a little difficult in his slippers, but he managed to steady himself, and tap on John’s window.

The curtains parted on the second gentle tap, and John stood there, in his pyjamas, rubbing his eyes and looking bewildered.

“Sherlock?” he mouthed.

Sherlock nodded, and let John open the window a tiny bit.

“What is it?” John whispered. “What’s wrong?”

“I forgot to say you’re my best friend, too,” Sherlock grinned.

John shook his head, smiling. “Go back to bed, you nutter.”

Sherlock beamed, and carefully climbed back down.

 

*

 

“I don’t see the harm in it,” John’s mum was saying. “They’ve had a lovely summer together, and they’re bound to miss each other when they go back.”

Violet Holmes didn’t seem to know what to do with her arms. She kept folding them, then dropping them so not to appear aggressive to the beta woman, and then folding them again. “It’s just… Sherlock and John are… well, they’re not…”

“They’re children,” John’s mum said in an even tone. “They’re friends. It’s a sleepover, and both Jack and I would be in the house.”

Sherlock and John looked at each other from their spying position on the landing, flat on their stomachs as they leaned over, foreheads pressed against the bannister bars.

“What on Earth are you doing?” a haughty voice came from above them.

“Listening,” Sherlock said. “Go away.”

Mycroft tutted. “A sleepover? Really?”

“I’m going back to St Bede’s in a few days,” Sherlock said.

“And Sherlock told me he’s never had pizza,” John said. “That sounds like child abuse.”

“You two have some very strange ideas,” Mycroft said. He stepped over their legs and went to go down the stairs.

Sherlock went back to eavesdropping.

“And, who knows,” John’s mum was saying, “maybe one day, they might even…”

“That’s not on the cards, I’m afraid,” Violet said, lowering her voice. “There’s something in place already.”

“Ah. Well, then I think it’s even more important they continue this spontaneous friendship.”

“I quite agree,” Mycroft’s voice joined in. “Quite the right of passage, a sleepover. And they’re both children, and supervised. It would do them both good, I’m sure of it.” His footsteps went away.

Violet sighed. “Alright, he can stop over. I’ll send him with a sleeping bag and what-not.”

“Oh, how lovely!”

Sherlock and John exchanged a silent high-five, and sat up.

“Amazing,” John brushed carpet-fluff from his front. “We can have such a great night! Even if you are going to abandon me.”

“Not through choice,” Sherlock said. He had a feeling he ought to be bothered about what his mother had said, but the happiness over being allowed to stop over was pushing it out of his mind. “And I’ll be back at Christmas. And it’s my birthday just after.”

“It’s mine in October. You’re going to miss it.”

“I’ll send you a card.”

“You can send me a present, too.”

“If I remember,” Sherlock grinned.

John mock-punched him, and Sherlock dodged, jabbing his friend in the ribs with a finger. John grabbed his hand, and tried to get Sherlock in a headlock, and the two of them struggled like puppies on the carpet as they tried to half-heartedly pull each other’s hair and get one another around the wrist.

“A-HEM.”

They froze in a mess of tangled limbs, and looked up at Sherlock’s dad.

Sherlock let go of John, and they both got to their feet, looking contrite. “Sorry, dad,” Sherlock said to the carpet.

“Less of that in my house,” Siger Holmes said. “The last thing we need is one of you falling down the stairs…” he looked at the mess both of them were in. “Hadn’t you better be getting home, John?” It was his way of asking John to leave.

“Yeah,” John said, taking the hint. “See you later, Sherlock.” He went to give him a pat on the arm, then thought better of it. “Thanks for having me, Mr Holmes.”

“Not at all, John. I’m sure we’ll see you tomorrow.”

John nodded, and went down the stairs, letting himself out of the front door.

Sherlock looked up at his dad, who looked as if he was torn about something. “Dad…”

“Sherlock, it isn’t that I don’t want you to have friends,” Siger said quickly. “It’s just… You and John are just on the cusp on growing up, and we might both be progressive households, but there are some things that alphas and omegas just can’t do.”

“You mean… play-fighting?” Sherlock asked.

“I mean… a lot of physical contact.”

“…why?”

Siger looked at the ceiling. “It’s just… not what’s done.”

“John’s my best friend,” Sherlock said.

“Is he your boyfriend?”

The question brought Sherlock up short. “I… no. He’s not… we’re just friends. Alphas and omegas can be friends.”

“Of course they can, but it’s not very usual. So, I thought I’d ask.” Siger made an attempt to smooth down Sherlock’s hair. “Have I made you feel silly?”

“A bit,” Sherlock said. He put his hands in his pockets.

“I’m sorry. Look, if John’s just a friend, that’s fine by me. He’s a good boy, if a bit rough and ready. And things might change when you’re older, you might not be as good friends.”

The thought made something horrid and cold drop into Sherlock’s stomach. “Right.”

“I suppose you heard your mother saying you can go to John’s for a sleepover?”

“Yeah…”

“Well, that’s something to look forward to isn’t it?” Siger said brightly, patting his youngest son’s head before heading down the stairs.

 

*

 

It wasn’t until later that Sherlock remembered what his mother had said, and it was even later when he realised what it meant.  


	3. Chapter 3

John had to laugh when Sherlock asked for a knife and fork to eat his pizza with.

“You are so weird,” he grinned, before levering a slice into his mouth with his hands. “I’m going to kidnap you and make you live like a poor person for a year.”

“You’re not poor, are you?” Sherlock asked, trying in vain to make a string of cheese snap between his mouth and the pizza slice he held.

“Poorer than you. I guess maybe ‘poor’ isn’t the right word. Working class? Is that a thing?”

“Mummy says there’s no such thing as a class system anymore,” Sherlock gave up, and took another bite, instead.

John shook his head. “The fact you say ‘mummy’ without flinching proves you’re posh.” He picked up a can of cola, and opened it, snapping the lid and sipping quickly as the bubbles foamed over.

“I’m so full,” Sherlock sighed, putting his crust down. “But I want to carry on eating.”

“It’s not a sleepover until someone’s sick.”

“That’s ok, then…” Sherlock copied John’s actions with a can of his own, and sipped the liquid tentatively. “Oh. It tastes… sharp.”

“It’s the sugar and the bubbles,” John said. He grabbed the remote and turned on the TV. “And the caffeine, maybe. I don’t know how it works.”

“The carbonation increases the –” Sherlock started, then stopped. “Yeah, I don’t know, either.”

John looked at him. “Don’t dumb yourself down for me, Sherlock. I like that you’re clever.”

“Then you’re the only one,” Sherlock muttered.

“Don’t they want you to be clever at school? Or at home?”

“Only when it comes to certain things.”

“Oh.” John flicked through the channels, and came to a movie that was just starting.

Sherlock moved the pizza box away, and sipped his drink again. It wasn’t bad, once you got used to the fact it made you want to burp every time you had a bit of it. He leaned back against the sofa with John. On the screen, a scientist had created a portal of some sort that was going wrong.

“What would your superpower be?” John asked, looking at Sherlock and grinning.

Sherlock thought about it. “Maybe the ability to make other people understand.” He shrugged. “Or invisibility.”

“Or that. I think I’d have to go for speed, get to people who needed me really quick, dodge bullets, that sort of thing,” John said. “It’d be handy for nipping to the shops.”

“Imagine the wear on your trousers, though.” Sherlock put his drink down.

“That’s why you make a suit, isn’t it? To deal with your powers? Like, if you went invisible, you’d just be your clothes walking about, unless you took them all off and walked around naked.”

Their eyes met, and they both blushed, before looking away.

“I’d get a suit made, from the superhero tailor,” Sherlock said, after a moment.

“Sensible.”

“Back in a minute,” Sherlock shuffled off the sofa, and let himself out of the room to go to the bathroom.

John watched him go, and sighed, letting his head rock back. He was trying too hard, he knew, but he was really bummed out about Sherlock going back to school in a couple of days. Despite his easy-going nature, John didn’t make friends too easily – he had a lot of acquaintances, but few actual friends. He didn’t like people getting too close. His dad said it was because he was an alpha, but John thought it was more likely just his personality. He liked who he liked, and he got attached to people fiercely… just not very often. He was going to miss Sherlock so much.

Sherlock might be an omega boy (John had heard his own parents talking about how unusual this was, and how much Sherlock was going to lead a strange sort of life if he didn’t have the right encouragement), but in John’s eyes he was just a slightly odd, very clever lad, who knew about bugs and trees and science, and didn’t know anything about football or video games. He didn’t see what Sherlock’s secondary gender had to do with anything. Truth be told, he had no idea how that made Sherlock and him different.

Later that night, both boys were on the floor in their sleeping bags, giggling in the dark as they both made promises to try and go to sleep, then immediately started laughing again, and shushing each other.

“Go to sleep,” John grinned, watching Sherlock try to compose himself. Sherlock’s pyjamas had bees on them. John’s were an old t-shirt and baggy boxer shorts.

“I am asleep,” Sherlock whispered back. He glanced at John, and they both hid in their sleeping bags as they started laughing again. There was something delicious about sleeping in the same room, on the floor.

The door opened, and John’s dad looked in. He was carrying a mug. “Lads,” he said, mock-stern, “I get that it’s a laugh, but you need to pipe down, now. It’s midnight. And I’m off to bed myself. Just rein it in, ok?”

“Sorry,” John said, smirking.

Sherlock snorted, and stayed hiding in his own bag.

John’s dad shook his head. “Go to sleep. Sherlock’s mum’ll be wondering why he’s so tired, tomorrow.” He closed the door behind him.

Sherlock peeped out of the top of his sleeping bag. “We could just sleep until noon, tomorrow.”

“I was planning to,” John smiled, rolling onto his front. “Does your mum need you to back early, or something?”

“No… she’s just worried,” Sherlock said. He pushed his hair back off his face. “Dad asked me if you were my boyfriend.”

John spluttered. “But…. Right. What did you say?”

“I said no.”

“Did he believe you?”

“Seemed to.”

“That’s alright, then,” John said. Then wondered why he’d said that. “Not that that’s insulting or anything,” he said quickly. “Just… well, you’re my friend. We’re not…” he trailed off.

“No,” Sherlock said to the ceiling. “We’re not.”

There was an uneasy silence.

John bit a piece of skin off his lip. “Do you… have a girlfriend at school?”

Sherlock shook his head. “No. Just friends who are girls.” He looked over. John could see his eyes shining in the dark. “What about you?”

“Mum says ten is too young to be courting.”

“So, you don’t like anyone?”

“I don’t know, I don’t really think about it,” John shrugged. “It’s not like people you fancy now you end up marrying, or bonding with, is it? It’s just kid stuff. So Harry says.”

“Harry’s a beta?”

“Yeah, but she doesn’t like boys,” John lowered his voice even further. “She doesn’t know I know. But I saw her kissing a girl in her class before we broke up.”

“That happens every day at my school,” Sherlock snorted. “I suppose it’s bound to when there’s only one boy.”

“You.”

“Yep.”

“So, you could kiss girls. If you wanted to.”

“If I wanted to. But I don’t.” Sherlock cleared his throat. “I’m an omega. Omegas only like alphas, and alphas are almost always men, like omegas are almost always women.”

“So… you could never like a beta?”

Sherlock considered. “Not a beta girl, I don’t think.”

“Alphas can marry betas,” John said. “Look at my mum and dad.”

“They have to, there’s not enough omegas to go around.” Sherlock put his hands behind his head. “I don’t really think about it, much. It’s not as though I need to think about it until I’m an adult, is it?”

“No, it’s not,” John agreed. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. It doesn’t stop anyone doing anything, or being with anyone, no matter what they… are.”

Sherlock hummed.

The two boys eventually drifted off to sleep, their childish assessment of the world much more innocent than the truth of it.

 

*

 

The day came for Sherlock to go back to St Bede’s. He was kitted out in his uniform (grey trousers, pink shirt, grey blazer), and Siger and Mycroft were loading up the car.

Sherlock and John stood on the bit of pavement between their two houses.

“See you at Christmas,” John said, gruffly. He handed Sherlock a pack of Fruit Pastilles. “They won’t melt in the car,” he explained.

Sherlock nodded, and put them in his inside pocket. “Have a good term,” he said, feeling slightly hopeless.

“And you.”

They both stared at their shoes.

“Sherlock, it’s time to get going,” his dad called. “Come on.” He got into the car, and started it.

“See you, then…” Sherlock took a step backwards.

John grabbed him, and yanked him into what was probably meant to be a hug, but was more like a crush as he squeezed all the air out of him. Then let go, almost instantly. “Bye.”

“Bye,” Sherlock nodded, and jogged to the car, without looking back.

John folded his arms around himself, though the September sun was warm, and watched the car pull off the drive, and away. He wished he could see Sherlock, but the blacked-out windows made that impossible.

“It’ll go quicker than you think,” Mycroft said, from over the hedge.

John nodded. “Yeah.”

“And you can always write.”

John forced a smile, and went back inside. He was back at school himself the next day. It was going to be pretty lonely.

 

*

 

“Did we have to set off so early?” Sherlock grumbled, watching the countryside flick past the window. “I’m going to be the first one there.”

“We’re stopping off, on the way,” Sherlock’s dad said, keeping his eyes on the road.

“Where?”

“You’ve not been before,” Violet turned in her seat to look at him. “But you’ll like it. He’s a friend of ours. Well, of your father’s. He’s not seen you since you were a baby.”

Sherlock sighed. Family friends were not his choice of entertainment.

It took more than an hour for them to get there – the house itself was set into private grounds, which wasn’t unusual for Sherlock’s parents’ friends. They’d lived somewhere similar themselves until Sherlock was four or five, and his dad ‘made a bad investment’, as he put it. Mycroft suspected there had been gambling involved, but couldn’t get to the bottom of it.

Sherlock found himself wishing his brother was with them, as they parked at the front of the large house. Mycroft was as good as he was at seeing things. And this house had a lot to see.

A valet came and took the car keys, and a man who Sherlock thought might be a butler showed them into a lounge. Sherlock kept his shoes on, and his mother straightened his collar.

“Try to look happy, darling,” she said, kissing him on the cheek.

Sherlock gave her a tiny smile, and sat beside her on the couch as his father examined the books set into the walls.

A knock came, and a man Sherlock didn’t recognise let himself in. He was tall, and thin, with grey hair and a beard, and the sort of frameless glasses Sherlock thought made people look a bit like Father Christmas, though this was the only similarity.

Siger smiled, and came over to shake the man’s hand. “Wonderful to see you again…”

“Not at all,” the man smiled. “Thank you for making time to come to me. A silly request.”

“No, no, I… understand,” Siger said, in a voice that Sherlock knew meant he was lying. “You remember my mate, Violet?”

Violet smiled politely, but didn’t get up, to Sherlock’s surprise. She stayed where she was, holding onto Sherlock’s wrist with a grip like iron.

“And this is Sherlock.”

Sherlock made to stand, but the vice around his wrist tightened, and he stayed seated. “Hello,” he said.

There was a beat of expectation.

“Sir,” he added.

The new man in the room gave him a genuine smile. “Delighted to see you again, Sherlock. I’ve not seen you since you were an infant. Such a big boy, now. And back to school today?”

“Yes. Sir. Terms starts tomorrow.” Sherlock didn’t know where this _sir_ had come from, but it seemed wise to stick with it.

The man nodded, and looked at Sherlock’s father. “Would you mind?”

It wasn’t really a question.

Siger hesitated. Sherlock could read it in his body language.

“You may leave the door open.”

Siger nodded. “Violet, let us see about a pot of tea,” he said, with as much enthusiasm as a dead hedgehog.

Sherlock’s mother let go of her son’s arm, and followed her mate from the room, looking anywhere but at Sherlock, who sat, perplexed, alone on the sofa.

The man was still smiling at him. “You can relax,” he said. “I’m not going to hurt you.” He lowered himself onto the footstool, so he and Sherlock were eye-to-eye. “I’m not that sort of man. Do you like books?”

“I do,” Sherlock said, glancing at the walls. "Sir."

“Anything you like the look of, you may borrow. These aren’t volumes for display. Knowledge should be shared. Please, take a look at the shelves before you leave.” He put his head on one side, as if thinking.

Then, quicker than a breath, put a finger to Sherlock’s jaw, and pressed gently, but with enough intention to move a mountain. Sherlock tilted his head to one side, his fingers gripping the sofa cushion hard. The finger moved up, from Sherlock’s jaw to his cheek, stroking over the soft skin, leaving fire in its path.

The touch was gone after only a moment.

“Hard to believe you’re ten,” the man said, as if that explained what he had done. “Still…” he shrugged, and reached into his inside pocket. He drew out a small, wrapped, parcel in gold and blue paper, and handed it to Sherlock, who gripped it hard. “Open it when you get the chance,” the man said.

Sherlock nodded, and put it in his own blazer, feeling it bump against the sweeties John had given him.

The man looked delighted at the acceptance of his gift. “Have your parents told you my name?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“Well, I know yours is Sherlock,” he said. “And mine…” he offered a hand. The back of it was wrinkled, and marked with age spots near the thumb. “Mine, is Charles. That’s what you can call me. When you come to see me again.”

Sherlock made himself smile, and shook the hand, feeling how cold it was. “Nice to meet you,” he heard himself say.


	4. Chapter 4

**_Dear John,_ **

****

**_School is fine, we are doing lots of prep for SATs and not a lot else. I don’t know why they make us prepare so far in advance, the exams aren’t until summer. The new dorm rooms are a lot nicer than the Year Five rooms, and there are only four of us in it this time. I am still the only boy in school, but no one cares, at least._ **

**_The Science Lab has been refitted, and Mrs Thames says she’s going to give me some additional tuition to get me ready for upper school. She’s writing me a letter for recommendation that I take some of my GCSEs early. I hope she doesn’t mean P.E._ **

**_Sorry about the smudgy writing. My parents took me to see a friend of theirs on the way here, and he gave me a fancy pen as a present. It uses ink cartridges and they’re not great if you’re left-handed. But the pen is nice, it has my initials on it._ **

**_I’ll be coming home at Christmas, for two weeks. I hope term goes fast._ **

**_Have a great autumn, and good luck being a Year Six,_ **

****

**_Sherlock_ **

 

Sherlock folded the letter, and used an ordinary biro to write the address on the front, fearing the worst if he chanced the fountain pen again. He put a stamp on it, and put it in the outgoing box on the librarian’s desk. He sighed, looking at his inky left hand. The pen was fancy, but it certainly made a mess.

He had been quite tempted to throw the package from Charles away when he got to school, but he had sat on his bed instead, and unwrapped a sleek wooden box with _S. H._ engraved on the top. The pen inside was monogrammed with the same.

Sherlock had written a short thank-you note with it, despite the smudges, and sent it away, knowing his parents would be cross with him if he didn’t.

Charles had responded with a small card of dark paper with a violin on it in silver (he had to know Sherlock played), and a signature. Sherlock had put it on his shelf for a couple of days, and then moved it to his desk drawer. It was nice to get things, but they weren’t doing much for how much he missed John. Sherlock hadn’t even opened the packet of fruit pastilles, and instead had them in his pencil pot looking like a fat felt-tip amongst the pens.

He sighed, and walked through the halls back to the dorm-room, ignoring the smells of dinner from the dining room. He’d been homesick before, when he first started boarding school, but not like this. This was a drawing sort of ache in his chest, and he felt tired and he didn’t want to eat, and…

Sherlock flopped onto his bed with the pink and white duvet, and put his hands behind his head.

The feeling would go away. Feelings always did.

 

*

 

**_Dear Sherlock,_ **

****

**_Sorry it’s taken me so long to reply. School is ok, but doing scouts and cadets is eating all my free time. I miss hanging out in the den with you – dad put a solar panel on the roof and that powers a little heater, so I can sit in there and do my homework. It’s good because it means Harry can’t bother me._ **

**_I like the way your fountain pen writes! We have to use them in secondary school, so if you have any tips on how to use one, that would be great. And that’s a nice present to get. My dad’s friends always give me £1 and tell me not to spend it all at once._ **

**_We’ve got half term coming up, I wish you had it too so you could come down here._ **

**_Can’t wait for Christmas,_ **

****

**_John_ **

****

*

 

A week after John sent Sherlock his letter, a parcel arrived for him.

It was a few days early, but John didn’t bother waiting. He took it upstairs, and undid it carefully. A bright-coloured blue envelope tumbled out, along with something wrapped in brown paper and string.

John opened the card first.

 

**_To John,_ **

****

****_Have a very happy birthday!_  
  
Let me know what being 11 is like.  
  
Have a wonderful day,

****

**_Sherlock x_ **

****

He smiled, and stood it up on the desk before opening the parcel. A tightly-wrapped stethoscope tumbled out, along with a small and fat book on cardiology.

John beamed. He’d only told Sherlock about wanting to be a doctor once, but he’d obviously remembered it. John was a bit embarrassed about his want – his father was trying to steer him into being a soldier. Being a doctor would be seen as a soft option.

He put the stethoscope around his neck, and looked in the mirror.

He looked like an idiot, but he couldn’t help grinning at himself.

 

*

 

**_Dear Sherlock,_ **

****

**_Thanks for the presents! The stethoscope actually works, and it’s really interesting. They’re starting a rugby team at school and I think I might try out for it, seeing as it’s too wet and cold for football at the moment. Mum doesn’t want me to, she says washing all the mud out of the kit will be a nightmare and break the washing machine._ **

**_I saw Mycroft the other day, he gave me a lift into school and he told me a bit about the place you used to live. It sounded great, but I’m glad you moved because you got to live next to me when we moved! My dad lost some money when I was little, too – he lost his job and we had to live in a tiny flat for a while before he re-enlisted in the army to train the new people. I guess everyone’s family is complicated._ **

**_Can’t wait to see you at Christmas, we’re going to have a great time!_ **

****

**_John x_ **

****

*

 

Sherlock was packing up his bag for the holidays when Molly plopped herself on the bed beside him.

“Happy Christmas,” she handed him a card.

“Oh,” he took it. “Thank you.”

“So… you ready for Christmas?” she beamed.

“I’m going home, if that’s what you mean,” Sherlock opened the card. The picture on the front was of a Christmas fairy wearing a pink dress and sporting wings and a glittery wand. “Thank you.”

“That’s ok. So, I was wondering, are you going to Lady Evelyn’s Academy next year?” Molly smiled.

“Oh,” Sherlock put the card in his bag. “I don’t know. My parents are sorting that. Is that… an omega school?”

“Yeah.” Molly laced her fingers together. “I know you are one, obviously, and I am as well, but no one else I know in our form is…” she looked suddenly scared. “I didn’t want to go without knowing anyone.”

Sherlock looked at her. “You… know me?”

“I think so,” Molly nodded. “Don’t you know me?”

Sherlock realised he didn’t. “Yeah, I know you,” he lied, “I know you like science, and… you want to be a doctor.” He zipped up his bag. “My best friend wants to be a doctor, too.”

“Oh! What’s her name?”

“John,” Sherlock grinned.

“OH!” Molly went red, and giggled. “He’s a boy? From – from home, then?”

“Yeah, from home. He lives next door. He’s…” Sherlock trailed off. He didn’t want to tell Molly about John. That felt like sharing him.

“Well, you’ll get to see him over Christmas, then.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m looking forward to,” Sherlock joined her sitting on the bed. “It’ll be nice.”

 

*

 

Sherlock was tempted to snooze in the car, but he was excited to get home. There were Christmas lights strung up on the outside of every house and shop they drove past, and John could hardly wait to get back and see what John’s house looked like. He wondered if he would have a big tree, and if they opened their presents in their pyjamas in the morning, or after lunch when they were all dressed and ready. The Holmes family fell firmly into the second category, much to Sherlock and Mycroft’s annoyance.

“We’re just going to call in to Cam’s,” Siger called as they left the motorway.

“Cam’s?” Sherlock asked. “What’s that?”

“Charles’ house,” his mother turned in her seat to see him. “We’ve got some presents to drop off and pick up.”

“Alright…” Sherlock shrugged, though a cold worm of discomfort was now making its way through his insides. “Why ‘Cam’, though?”

“It’s his initials,” Siger said. “It sort of caught on, and then stuck. He likes it.”

Sherlock pondered this. ‘Cam’ sounded like a young person’s name, whilst ‘Charles’ sounded old and stuffy. There was something to be said about choosing your own name. Sherlock’s first name was, officially, William. But no one had called him that since he was a toddler.

They parked in the same spot as before, and Sherlock followed his parents into the lounge again, which was elaborately decorated for Christmas. Heavy garlands hung from the walls and ceilings, where was mistletoe over the doorframe, and a tree larger than any Sherlock had seen outside of a shopping centre dominated the corner furthest away from the fireplace, which crackled merrily in its frame of tinsel.

Sherlock perched on the arm of a chair, and stood when Charles, or Cam, entered the room.

“Merry Christmas,” the old man said, shaking hands with Sherlock’s father, and giving a gracious nod to his mother, before coming over to Sherlock and smiling.

“…ree Christmas,” Sherlock heard himself say. He suddenly felt very small. In the months away at school, he had somehow forgotten how old Charles was, how thin and how tall, and how he has a slight smell of mothballs that was nothing to do with his personal scent – it was just the smell of age. He tried not to shudder.

“So, how was school?” Charles sat in the chair Sherlock had been sat on the arm of. He indicated the arm again, and Sherlock hesitantly leaned against it. “Did you learn anything?”

“A bit,” Sherlock said, never knowing how to answer this sort of question. “Um…”

“Has Mrs Thames been teaching you?” Charles put his head on one side.

“Oh, yeah…” Sherlock frowned. “How did you…”

“I asked her to,” Charles said. “You’re much too clever a boy to simply plod along at everyone else’s pace. Some people think omegas should just learn to read and write and do household accounting, but I say that’s a waste of your potential. Your gender shouldn’t come into it if you’re naturally intelligent.”

Sherlock felt himself smile. “Thank you.”

“Not at all. I wasn’t joking when I said help yourself to my books, either. Any interest you have, let us encourage it.”

“I like science,” Sherlock said. “Chemistry, and… and that sort of thing.”

“I know,” Charles smiled, though his pale eyes stayed the same – a sort of dead stare that was one moment away from giving Sherlock the creeps. “Still, maybe Father Christmas will be good to you.”

“Mm.” Sherlock avoided looking at his parents. Last Christmas his big present had been a sewing box.

They had tea with Cam (it seemed somehow easier to think of him like that), and Sherlock borrowed two volumes on molecular biology before they started to collect their coats. Violet Holmes handed Sherlock a present-bag, and told him to give it to Cam, and he did so, wondering why she couldn’t just pass it over herself.

Cam smiled, and told him he would save it for Christmas morning. Then, he knelt beneath the Christmas tree, and pulled out a huge Santa Sack of gifts that was practically bursting at the seams. “And this is for you,” he said.

Sherlock stared. His nearly-eleven-year-old brain wrestled with the opposite thoughts that this was wonderful and also suspicious. He settled for taking the bag, and thanking Cam for it, even giving a little curtsey-bob to cover his shyness.

Cam put a hand to his head as if he was going to ruffle Sherlock’s hair. But instead he stroked, fingers through the strands, down to Sherlock’s chin, which he held for a second before releasing. “Have a very happy Christmas, Sherlock.”

“I will,” Sherlock looked back at the bag of gifts. He could barely lift it. His father came over to help him with it. Sherlock let him take it, and stood for a moment, awkward, as he hadn’t been excused.

“I hope to see you again soon. And your birthday’s coming up, isn’t it?” Cam asked.

“Yes. Eleven,” Sherlock said. “Um…”

“We’ll be having a party,” Violet said. “If you wanted to come, Cam, there’ll be plenty of food and drink.”

“Then, I wouldn’t miss it,” Cam smiled. “Off you go, Sherlock. Be good, won’t you?”

Sherlock promised he would, and picked up his coat to follow his father to the car.

 

*

 

“Aren’t you lucky?” Violet said, as they set off for home.

“Mm,” Sherlock said. He looked out of the window. “Why has he given me presents? I’ve never had presents from him before.”

Siger cleared his throat. “Well, Sherlock, I stopped working for Cam for a long time. A few hard feelings developed, but that’s changed now. He doesn’t have any children, and he always liked you and Mycroft when you were little, he used to see you fairly often. I think he feel he owes you for a few Christmasses.”

“Oh, ok,” Sherlock shrugged. “Are you working for him again, now?”

“Yes,” Siger said. “It’s a much better job. Much easier. More money.”

“Well, that’s good.”

Violet adjusted something on the radio. “Does Cam bother you, Sherlock?”

“Not really… I just… I don’t know him very well.”

“Well, we can soon sort that out.”

The journey went quickly, the dark highlighting the frost on the fields ether side of the road. When they pulled onto the drive, a few hopeful snowflakes were drifting down from the sky to wet ground they wouldn’t settle on.

“I’ll get your case and things,” Siger said, helping Sherlock out of the car. “You and your mother get inside, it’s freezing out here –”

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock turned, in time to see a bright yellow blur rushing up the path and barrelling into him, catching him in a tight grip that was more a crush than a hug. “John?” he managed, face buried in the boy’s coat.

“Yeah!” John released him. “I was watching for you coming back. It’s late!”

“We stopped off on the way,” Sherlock said, John in front of him pretty much erasing Cam from his mind. “Come in!”

Sherlock’s parents didn’t have a chance to protest before the two boys were in the hall, kicking off their shoes and dropping their coats onto the floor before pelting upstairs.

“You have to tell me everything,” John said, propping the bedroom door open (one of Violet’s rules). “So, what’s been going on?”

“School, and stuff,” Sherlock said, wincing at the lavender wallpaper of his room. “And I started doing some experiments in the labs, and I found out what happens to human tissue when it’s exposed to…” he started talking. And found he couldn’t stop. John’s happy face was beaming at him, and it felt like everything that had happened over the last fourteen weeks had to pour out of him before he burst. When Sherlock finished, John took up the conversation and talked about scouts and cadets and his sister and going to visit the secondary school the next village over, and how much he wanted a dog, and he could do wheelies on his BMX now. The two of them didn’t stop talking even when Siger summoned them for takeaway Chinese food, and they sat at the dining table, oblivious to everyone else as they gassed on and on.

When it was time for John to go home, they gleefully said ‘see you tomorrow’, and Sherlock stood waving from the front door until John was back in his own house.

He felt warm, and happy, and full of friendship.

He didn’t think about Cam once.


	5. Chapter 5

There was still snow on the ground, on the day of the party. People arrived wearing heavy coats, and the cloakroom spilled out into the hallway, coat-hangers dangling off the banister as some hired helps tried to keep everything organised.

John and his parents and sister didn’t bother with coats, simply popped round once they’d seen a few cars arrive.

A banner hanging from the ceiling read _Happy Birthday Sherlock_ , but the boy himself was nowhere to be seen. In fact, the place was entirely packed with adults holding champagne glasses, and the occasional baby in arms. John supposed Sherlock’s parents weren’t the type to know other parents.

“Hello Mr and Mrs Watson,” Mycroft appeared from around a corner. “Do come in, there’s food and drinks in the kitchen… Sherlock’s in the conservatory, John,” he added.

“Thanks,” John slipped away from his parents, and through the house to where the large glass conservatory sat on the back of it like a barnacle.

Sherlock was sitting on a wicker sofa, flicking through a book. There was a pile of unopened presents on the glass-topped table in front of him. He brightened when he looked up and saw John. “Hey… where’ve you been?”

“Mum didn’t want us to be too early. Catch?” John tossed him a present. “If you hate it, the receipt’s in your card.”

Sherlock didn’t move to unwrap it. “Did you have a good New Year?”

“Yeah, it was ok. Glad all the relatives have gone, now. I’ve hardly seen you.”

“I know,” Sherlock turned his gift over in his hands, and squeezed it. It was soft. “I thought we’d get more time…”

“Are you going to open that?”

“I’m savouring it.” Sherlock split the tape, and let the paper fall open without tearing it, much. A stream of blue fabric poured out, thick and soft and luxurious. “Oh,” he said, unwinding it. “Oh, that feels lovely.” He wrapped the scarf around his neck. “Thank you.”

“Suits you,” John smiled. “And I thought you’d appreciate something practical. There’s a book token in your card, as well.” He sat next to his friend. “Aren’t you going to open these others?”

“No,” Sherlock shrugged. “They’re all from my parents’ friends. They’ll be… I’ll wait until I can do a list for thank you cards.” He blushed, and John wondered why.

“What’s up?”

“You know what sort of thing they’ll be.”

“…no, I don’t.”

Sherlock looked at him. “They’ll be… toys and games and clothes and stuff. For omegas,” he said, lowering his voice.

“Ok, and?”

“And I don’t like those traditional things,” Sherlock said. “I don’t like… makeup and dolls and lace. But that’s what I get. And it’s not easy to hide disappointment, so I say I’m not opening things until later. People don’t usually pester.”

“Sorry.” John looked at the presents noticing how a lot of them were indeed in pink and white paper with bears and chicks and bunnies on. “You opened mine, though.”

“You know me.”

They smiled at one another.

John felt something swoop behind his stomach. It was a strange feeling. Almost like nerves. But Sherlock didn’t make him nervous.

He had no time to unpick the feeling, however, as Mycroft peering into the conservatory, looking somewhere between concerned and sad. “Sherlock, Cam is here.”

Sherlock looked over. “Cam? Really?”

“Bearing gifts. Well. A gift.”

“More pink teddies?” John asked.

“I don’t think so,” Mycroft said. “You should come through, Sherlock.”

Sherlock sighed, and unwound John’s scarf from around his neck. He folded it up, and patted it on the seat like it was a cat, then followed his brother, John tailing behind a little.

Mycroft caught him gently by the arm. “Don’t follow too close,” he breathed in John’s ear. “Just… hang back.”

“Why?”

“Trust me.”

John didn’t enjoy Mycroft’s company all that much, but he did trust him enough to recognise the seriousness in his voice. He hung back, and let a couple of adults walk in front of him as Sherlock went over to say hello to a man. He was an older man, with a grey beard to match his hair, and he had a smile on his face that looked kind, but also… learned. He gave a little bow to Sherlock, which John knew some older people did to omegas, and ladies who were betas. It looked gracious, but also a bit odd.

Sherlock did another strange thing, then.

He bobbed his knees, like a curtsey. Barely a movement, but it was there alright.

John didn’t know what to make of it.

The adults in front of him said something together then, and John almost missed Sherlock behind handed a black case, which was a funny sort of wiggly shape. It had a handle, and silver catches.

“It’s not wrapped, I’m afraid,” the man Cam was saying. “I’m not good at that sort of thing. But, the case does need opening.”

“Now?” Sherlock asked. He looked around at the expectant faces, and went red. “But…”

“Sherlock, be polite,” his father said. “Here, rest it on the table.”

Sherlock hesitated, then did as he was told, unfastening the catches, and lifting the lid.

John couldn’t see what was inside, but he heard gasps of delight from the guests around him.

“Oh, what a thing of beauty!”

“Such a present!”

“Gosh, I’d hardly dare hold it…”

Sherlock turned, holding in two hands, a violin of polished and gleaming wood. He looked as though someone had hit him in the face with a brick. “Thank you,” he managed, eyes still on the instrument.

“You’re very welcome,” Cam beamed. “It suits you.”

“It’s beautiful,” Sherlock said. His expression had softened, but into something John couldn’t read.

“Yes,” Cam nodded. “As I said.”

The nervous feeling in John’s stomach twisted, replaced by something that felt more like a bunch of cold, rotating knives.

Sherlock turned the violin over in his hands, and then tucked it under his chin to try it. Someone snapped a photo, and he frowned, taking it away and putting it gently back in the box.

Cam smiled again, and cocked his head slightly.

Sherlock smiled back, and closed the violin case lid. “Thank you,” he said again. “I… don’t know what to say.”

There was a moment then, where it looked like Cam was offering his cheek. John had kissed plenty of elderly aunts and so on, and knew the gesture well. It was a _go on, just a peck on the cheek for little old me_ signal. It was annoying, but part of family life, sometimes.

Except this wasn’t like pecking someone you were related to after they gave you a pound.

This was a man who hadn’t stopped smiling at Sherlock since he got there.

Sherlock looked back at his case, and picked it up. “I’m going to put this upstairs. I don’t want anyone resting a drink on it,” he took a step backwards, and the offered cheek was part of a smiling face again.

“Of course. And Happy Birthday. Now, Violet, can you direct me to the nearest bottle of champagne…”

The crowd dispersed quickly, and John waited only a few moments before going up the stairs after Sherlock.

He was in his room, looking at the violin again, the case open on his bed.

“Nice,” John said, closing the door behind him. “At least it’s not pink, eh?”

“Do you know what this is?” Sherlock breathed, not looking around.

“A… violin?”

“It’s a Stradivarius,” Sherlock said. He looked at John. “The last one sold at auction for… a lot of money.”

John frowned. “How much is a lot?”

“… sixteen million pounds.”

John took a moment for that to sink in. “Right. Ok. That’s…” he sat on the window seat. “Makes my scarf look a bit shit.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Sherlock said quickly. “I love it.”

“It’s just a scarf.”

“It’s from you.”

John rubbed his eyes, and looked back at his friend. “Who is that man?” he asked.

“He’s a family friend. Dad works for him.”

“So, he’s your dad’s boss, and he’s spent millions of pounds on you for your birthday. Does that not seem a bit… weird?”

Sherlock blushed. “Yes, but what can I do? He’s just a man with more money than sense, isn’t he?”

“I don’t know,” John said. “But I don’t like him.”

Sherlock pouted a little. “Cam’s been nice to me, nothing else. He’s just an old guy. Maybe he wants to write me into his will. Mad rich people do that, don’t they?”

“Only in books, I think.”

They pulled worried faces at one another.

Sherlock closed the lid on the violin, and came over to sit beside John. “I don’t think I want to talk about this,” he said quietly. “Because I don’t want to think about what else it could be.”

“I get that,” John said, “but there’s nothing wrong with being careful.” He flexed his hands, and pressed them together. “Not everyone’s a good guy.”

“And not everyone’s bad.”

“I know that, but –”

“John, Cam and you are the only people today who’ve given me a gift that says they know me. He lends me books, and he got me extra tuition at school. He’s not evil. He’s a lonely old man with no children. That’s all there is to it.”

John stared. “Ok. That’s… all there is to it.” He looked at the carpet.

Sherlock crossed his legs. “We should go back down.”

“Yeah?” John sniffed. “You really want to?”

“No, but it’s probably a good idea.”

“Ok,” John stood, and helped Sherlock up, trying not to think about the way the boy’s hand fit into his. He let go quickly. “They’ll want to sing to you soon, I bet.”

“Oh, no…” Sherlock groaned, but followed John, anyway.

The violin sat on the bed, until Sherlock packed it into his school suitcase, the next day.

After that, he didn’t see John for seven months.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aplogies for the delay in updating this... thanks for hanging in there, guys.

There was a summer. It was what John would later look back and call a ‘Sherlock Summer’. It was the sort of summer of childhood where the six weeks off school seem to last forever, and it never rains, and the days are made up of squashed sandwiches in the bottom of backpacks. Those summers were there are bikes to ride, and trees to climb, and films to fall asleep in front of when you’ve both stayed up way later than you ought to.

John would look back at those sort of summers with an ache in his heart.

The summers before things were frightening.

The summers when he still had Sherlock.

Because it didn’t matter that they only saw one another during the holidays. Each time they came home, each time Sherlock changed out of his stupid uniform and back into shorts and a t-shirt, each time John banged on the Holmes’ front door with a grubby fist, a plaster on each knee… Each time they got to be together felt like coming home.

And then, at least once during the holidays, Sherlock would have to go out.

John would see him, on those days – those hateful days – when Sherlock would come out of his house all dressed up in a fitted suit, his hair having gone through some sort of process in an attempt to tame it (it never worked). He never looked miserable or upset, just bored. He’d always look up, to see if John has sneaked into Harry’s room to watch him go. And they’d wave. And Sherlock would get into his parents’ car, and be gone for the whole day. Never overnight, though.

John was pretending to sleep when the taps came at his window.

He rolled out of bed, and opened it quickly.

Sherlock clambered in, barefoot to hide the noise of his footsteps, and grinned as John closed the window as quietly as he could.

They were fourteen, now, and they had this game perfected.

“Come on,” John whispered, getting back into bed, and holding the covers up for Sherlock, who slithered in after him, pressing his freezing feet against John’s calves. “You cold bastard,” John hissed, but made no attempt to kick him away. “Are they all asleep?”

“I think so,” Sherlock shifted, his arm under the pillow under both of their heads. “Mycroft knows I sneak over, though.”

“…how?”

“He just knows.”

“Will he say anything?”

“I doubt it. Anyway…” Sherlock smiled, “better than the other way around.”

The memory of John hanging off the guttering in silent terror as Sherlock’s parents asked what the noise was, and Sherlock told a lot of lies about not having heard a thing was very real. John wasn’t in a hurry to repeat that night.

“I’m at Cam’s tomorrow,” Sherlock pulled a face.

“Oh. Right,” John mostly tried to keep his thoughts about Cam to himself. He hadn’t seen the man in person for years, but he’d seen evidence of him. The violin Sherlock treasured. The new clothes, the laptop, the smartphone, the money he always seemed to have to hand. But Sherlock didn’t like talking about it.

So, John tried not to.

“I’ll be back tomorrow night. I’ll come over.”

“If you want to.”

“Why would I not want to?”

John looked at him, a tight feeling gripping down his torso. “Well… you might be… all… Cam-ed out.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It’s just a visit. I usually spend most of it rifling through his library. Dad and him talk business crap, and Mummy drinks tea. It’s like visiting a relative.”

John nodded. “I guess.”

Sherlock’s pale eyes flickered over John’s face. He sighed, and shifted on the mattress, and a cold scent of skin and wash-powder came from his pyjamas. “You know I’d rather be playing with you.”

“Well, when you come back we should go out to Copthorne,” John said. “On the bikes. For the whole day.”

“Ok,” Sherlock smiled wider.

They were quiet for a moment, then. John was aware of the cooling strip of air between them, how they were both far apart as they could get in the single bed.

He was always afraid they would both fall asleep, and be found the next morning, and that would be the end of that. Sometimes Sherlock did doze off, and John would let him snooze for a bit, watching his face relax, his curls fall over his forehead, his soft lips part, the cushions of flesh sticking slightly in sleepy warmth.

John had never dared leave him like that for long.

Sherlock’s eyes were closed, now, the lilac hoods of his eyelids just visible in the darkness.

“Don’t fall asleep,” John whispered.

“Just so comfy,” Sherlock murmured back.

“Yeah, well. We’ll get in trouble.”

Sherlock opened one eye. “I know.”

“Doesn’t that bother you?”

Sherlock rolled onto his back, and stared at the ceiling. “Yes. But… we’re going to get caught anyway, aren’t we?”

John laughed nervously. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… alphas and omegas aren’t friends. Not really. We – they’re either mates, or they’re… not anything, really.”

John considered. “Well… we’re not regular, anyway. You’re… special.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “That won’t matter.” He inhaled deeply through his nose. “We had a class, at school. A Sex Ed class.”

“Yeah, so did we,” John said. “Bloody awful.”

“Yeah, but… ours was for omegas,” Sherlock said. “Just for omegas. And… and they said that we’re all on a ticking clock, now. For maturing.”

“Well, that’s ok, isn’t it?” John shrugged. “You’ll be safe at your school.”

“Yes, but… that’s not what I mean,” Sherlock propped himself up on an elbow. “I mean that once it happens, there’s going to be… it’ll be… more difficult. For us. To be close.”

John looked up at him, oblivious. “I don’t get it.”

“Because… I’ll be… grown up. Before you are. Alphas don’t mature until they’re older.”

“You have completely lost me,” John said. “What does it matter who matures first? Is it a race?”

“No!” Sherlock scrubbed at his eyes. “No, I mean… I’ll be ready to… be a grown up, and – and maybe get…” he blushed.

Something was dawning in the back of John’s head. “You mean you’ll want to be around mature alphas because you’ll be… broody?”

“I don’t know. But they said we might be. At certain times.”

“They didn’t tell us about that,” John said. “Maybe that’ll be next time. But… so what if you’ll want a mate?”

Their eyes met.

 _You don’t want me, do you?_ John asked, silently.

 _I don’t know_ , Sherlock said back.

They both looked away.

“Look, if it makes you feel better,” John said, awkwardly, “I don’t look at you and see an omega. Not ever. I don’t even know what that would mean. You’re just Sherlock. My friend. My best friend. And… And I don’t want you to think that just because we’re both going to change a bit that I’m not going to want to be around you. I’ll always want to be around you.”

“Always,” Sherlock repeated. “That’s… always?”

“Yeah.”

They looked at each other again.

Later, much later, John would curse himself for not leaning up, cupping Sherlock’s face and kissing him. He didn’t even know he wanted to, not really. He wanted to be with his best friend. He loved him, I the boyish way that childhood friends love one another. But Sherlock was right – they were changing. And so was John’s love for Sherlock. It was deepening, and sharpening, carving itself onto John’s heart. Indelible.

But they didn’t kiss. They didn’t even really touch. Neither of them were quite there, yet.

They both had too much to lose.

So, Sherlock let himself back out the window, and John closed it behind him. He got back into bed, in the warm spot Sherlock had left behind, and inhaled the scent of him. He couldn’t smell anything beyond his own bedding, and Sherlock’s charcoal shampoo. He knew when he was older that he would be able to smell better. He wondered what that would be like.

John curled the covers around himself. Sherlock’s insistence that they wouldn’t be able to be as close, anymore, had unnerved him. He couldn’t imagine summers without him, couldn’t imagine Christmas without taking Sherlock’s present round on Boxing Day (because it made Christmas last longer) and the two of them drinking the hot chocolate Mycroft made, with golden syrup and marshmallows.

It was hateful that Cam stole even a single day from him. John burned with hatred for a moment, then turned over and tried to empty his mind.

Sherlock was wrong.

Things would always be the same for them. Even if they changed, they could only get closer, couldn’t they?

They were Sherlock and John. Holmes and Watson.

They were made for each other.

 


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock fiddled with his cuffs as he looked in the mirror. He was in a new suit – he was always given a new suit for visiting Cam – and this one fit him better than any of the previous ones. Mycroft said the tailoring was to a higher standard, but Sherlock suspected it sat better on him because he now had shoulders. He was taller, too, and the sleeves on the jacket hung properly rather than looking like afterthoughts. The material was a deep blue-black that contrasted with the lilac of his shirt (no tie), and made him look paler than usual, but it suited him.

He sighed, and cast an eye at the pile of dirty washing on his floor. He’d much rather have been wearing shorts and a grubby t-shirt, but there was no point even suggesting it.

“Sherlock!” his father yelled up the stairs.

Sherlock walked down, and kept his eye-rolling to a minimum as he went out onto the drive. He glanced up, and caught sight of John, who promptly flipped him off. Sherlock subtly gave him the Vs back, pretending to comb his hair back over his ear. He saw John grin, and disappear from the window.

Mycroft came out of the house, and locked the door.

Sherlock blinked in surprise. “You’re coming?”

“Yes.”

“…you never come.”

“I know,” Mycroft walked past him and got into the back of the car. Sherlock followed. The brothers looked at each other, and Sherlock felt as if Mycroft was trying to tell him something with his eyes, but he didn’t know what it was. It was difficult to be around Mycroft, sometimes. As Mycroft was Sherlock’s older sibling, and an alpha, Sherlock as a developing omega found it easier to avoid him than to try and work out how their relationship was meant to function. Mycroft had never been unkind to him deliberately, but he had an unconscious bias when it came to listening, and letting Sherlock have his share of time and space.

If Sherlock was a little older, or had looked a little closer, he might also have seen protectiveness.

But Sherlock was fourteen, and headstrong, and full of his own mind.

So, he saw nothing he could understand in Mycroft’s eyes.

The drive was quicker than Sherlock usually thought it was, and before too long they were pulling onto the gravel driveway outside Cam’s house.

“Oh,” Sherlock looked out of the window. “He’s changed the topiary.”

“…it’s been a while since I was here,” Mycroft said.

They parked up, and let themselves out. Violet patted her hair, and they followed the eldest member of the family to the front door, which was already open, Cam standing smiling on the step.

“Welcome, welcome,” he beamed. His eyebrows went up. “Mycroft? What an unexpected pleasure.”

“Mr Magnussen,” Mycroft offered a hand. It seemed to Sherlock like there was rather more gripping than actual shaking going on.

“And Sherlock,” Cam said, extracting his fingers without difficulty, “how you’ve grown this past year! A proper young man, aren’t you?” He stepped aside. “Do come in. There’s chilled lemonade in the sunroom…”

Sherlock wandered in, familiar with the layout of the house. Mycroft followed him, sticking weirdly close like a sheepdog.

“You’re both looking well,” Cam was saying to their parents as they brought up the rear in the procession. “Been away?”

“No, no,” Siger said. “Just good weather. We thought about France…”

Cam didn’t respond to that, and instead nodded at a waiting server, who began to pour out fizz, and take the lids off trays of cooled snacks.

Sherlock took one of the glasses, and felt the bubbles, sharp on his tongue. “Stop lurking so close, Mycroft,” he said, under his breath.

His brother ignored him. “So, Mr Magnussen,” he said instead, “no change in your businesses this year?”

Cam smirked. “Do you ever take a day off, Mycroft? You can always have me arrested if you want to do some prying at a more convenient time.”

“I don’t know if I’ve got a reason to do that,” Mycroft said.

Siger laughed. “For goodness’ sake, Mycroft. This is why we never bring him anywhere, you know.”

“I’m sure that isn’t the case,” Cam sipped his own drink.

Sherlock swallowed some of his own. The elderflower taste was cloying.

“So, Sherlock,” Cam came over, and Sherlock saw his parents begin to chat with each other. “How is school?”

“Oh, it’s fine,” Sherlock said, voice giving a sudden wobble. He cleared his throat. “Sorry.”

“Nothing to apologise for, you’re a growing boy. I remember when Mycroft could rival a soprano,” Cam shrugged. “But school’s good? Do you have any special friends?”

Sherlock came within a hair of saying ‘yes’.

Until the look on Mycroft’s face made his brain quickly rewire.

“Not special, as such,” he said. “There’s a girl called Molly, and… and… I don’t have a best friend,” he lied.

Cam nodded. “No one equal to you.”

“Not – that’s not the reason…” Sherlock tried to think. “I just don’t get a lot of time to do make friends. I do a lot of after-lesson activities, and now I’m in my own dorm room…”

“Yes,” Cam smiled. “Do you like that?”

Sherlock had preferred sleeping with the other omegas. They hadn’t exactly been close, but at night time their natural bond became strong. On nights with storms, they had often pushed all the beds together and curled up like puppies.

Now, Sherlock slept alone.

“I like the privacy,” he said.

“You need it. You’ll need it more, soon, by the look of you.” Cam drained his glass.

Sherlock blushed. “I don’t know… the girls are the same –”

“No one is the same as you,” Cam took Sherlock’s chin between a thumb and finger. “You’re unique, you know that? Prized. You’ll be worshipped.”

 _“…when?”_ Sherlock had been about to ask before Mycroft reached over and took several canapes from the tray.

Cam let him go. “The gardens are lovely, this year. Did you read those botany books I sent you?”

“I did.”

“A pop quiz, then. Let’s see which blooms you can identify.” He offered his arm.

Violet sat up, slightly. “Th-the garden?”

“By all means, come as well,” Cam said. “The shade beneath the trees is very welcome on a day like this.”

Sherlock finished his drink, and put the glass down. The patio doors were opened, and the whole party went outside. Siger stepped back to loudly admire the brickwork, but Violet and Mycroft began a gentle wander down the lawn, several metres behind Sherlock and Cam, who led the way to several ornate flower-beds.

“Camelia,” Sherlock reeled off. “Tiger lily. Wisteria.”

“You’re so studious. Envy of the other students, I bet…” Cam stopped to touch a curved thorn on a rose-bush. The thorn pressed against the pad of his thumb, but didn’t puncture the skin. “Would you say so?”

“I don’t think anyone envies me,” Sherlock said.

The man turned to him. In the bright outdoor sunlight, Sherlock could see the wrinkles of his face, the sparse nature of his grey-white hair, combed to look fuller. There were fingerprint-smears on the glass of his spectacles.

“Everyone either envies you, or covets you,” Cam said, in a voice that brooked no argument. “If your parents haven’t told you as such, they are failing you.”

“Failing me?” Sherlock suddenly felt very hot in his jacket.

“You’re an omega boy,” Cam said, his voice dropping low, secretively. He looked at Sherlock as if he was afraid.

Sherlock’s stomach did something that felt like it was going through one of those old mangles he’d seen at the museum. He pressed his lips together in case the contents of his insides were about to be squeezed up his throat.

“An omega boy,” Cam repeated. “And therefore almost priceless. If people can be bought. Ha! As if they are goods, I mean. Not in a business sense.”

Sherlock felt as if he should laugh, but he didn’t understand.

“What I mean is, not everyone is like your family. And not everyone is like me,” Cam said. “There are people out there who look at you – who will look at you – like meat. They will want you, as soon as those hormones get going. It’s not your fault, it’s nature, but you have to be responsible.”

Sherlock nodded, though he wasn’t sure what he was agreeing with.

“Alphas who haven’t mastered themselves as I have will be the ones to watch,” Cam said, slicing through the head of a rose with his thumbnail. “Young ones, those seething desire and lust. Only interested in one thing. You must watch yourself around them. There’s many an omega girl bonded against her will because she led alphas on. But you’re not like them, are you?”

“No,” Sherlock whispered.

“I thought not. You’re saving yourself for someone who will cherish you, aren’t you?”

Unbidden, an image of John popped into Sherlock’s head.

Sherlock quickly squashed it down, in case Cam could see into his mind. “I’m not looking for anything,” he said. “I’m…”

“You’re so precious,” Cam said. “You deserve to be with someone who can see that. Who knows your worth. Who will treat you like a prince every day of your life, and let you have the money and education you need. In this world, Sherlock, you cannot trust anyone. You let someone close to you, and they become a threat. Unless…” he looked at him, “you are meant to be.”

“Sherlock, look at this,” Mycroft called over.

“Um… excuse me,” Sherlock bobbed his knees.

Cam snatched at his sleeve. “Think about it,” he said. “You need to be careful, Sherlock. You must remember – they can’t help themselves. But you can stop them. You have to watch your own back.”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes… sir.”

The grip left his sleeve, and he walked over to where Mycroft and his mother were watching koi swim in a pond.

Cam’s words swam around Sherlock’s brain, just like the fish.

Alphas would use him?

But… surely – surely he didn’t mean John?


	8. Chapter 8

Summer ended, and autumn went by in a flash of school uniforms and games. John broke his wrist playing rugby, and wore a cast for four weeks, ignoring the advice to give up the game once it was healed. He took his first Year 10 mock exams, and was relieved to pass (and actually do rather well).

Winter came, and the Christmas holidays with it. John was sitting in the window-seat of the lounge, pretending to read. Really, he was waiting for Sherlock to come home from boarding school. It was a dry December, of the sort that chills your bones, and John had his sleeves pulled down over his hands as he held his book.

“Waiting for your boyfriend?” Harry asked, plonking herself near his feet.

John rolled his eyes. “Yep. Spoken to your girlfriend, today?”

“Yeah, I’m going over later,” Harry shrugged.

They grinned at each other.

Harry poked him with a fluffy-socked toe. “You ok?”

“Yeah. He’s late. Later than usual, I mean.” John closed his book.

Harry gave him a little smile. “Is he your boyfriend? Sherlock, I mean.”

“No,” John shook his head. “No, he’s… my best mate. That’s all there is to it.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” John looked at her. “I don’t know if I… he’s…”

“He’s an omega,” Harry said, softly.

“What does that even mean?” John threw his hands up. “He’s just a boy. I’m just a boy. You’re just a girl, and so is Clara. I don’t understand any of it.”

Harry nodded. “I know. I – I don’t get it, either. I’m a beta. It doesn’t work the same way for me. The scenting stuff, the – the mates… We get married. You… bond.”

“Is that better?” John asked.

“I don’t know. Some people say it’s better because it’s like a pure form of love, your bond? But then… omegas can be bonded without falling in love first. They don’t always get a choice.”

“But alphas do?”

Harry shrugged. “More than omegas, that’s for sure.”

John felt rather strange. For the first time in his life, he felt very uneasy about his secondary gender. He hadn’t realised it could be a dangerous thing.

Not to the people he…

liked.

 

*

 

Sherlock screamed into a pillow.

It came in waves – the aching need as pain blossomed over him. He brought his knees up, the sheets of the strange bed sticking to his legs with slick and sweat. His back hurt, his backside hurt, even his legs hurt from the assault.

“No….” he moaned, hiding his face again. “No, I don’t…” his words dissolved into a moan as another wave of pain smacked into him.

He pressed hard at his stomach – it felt as if his stomach, or something lower down – was stretching and distending inside him. He had the urge to do things to himself that he’d only ever heard about in lewd whispers, and as much as he tried to tell himself that he didn’t want to, that it was dirty, he ended up doing them anyway.

And it didn’t even help.

It was the worst night of Sherlock’s life.

So far.

 

*

 

John woke up on Christmas Eve morning with his mouth dry and disgusting, and a throbbing headache behind his eyes. He had stayed up far too late, and Sherlock still hadn’t come home. There was only Mycroft’s car next door when he looked out of the window.

“Alright, John?” his dad asked as he tore downstairs, yesterday’s clothes thrown on in a hurry.

“Just going out,” John said, zipping his coat up.

“But you’ve not even had breakfast!”

John slammed the door behind him, and ran down the path, around the fence, and straight up to the Holmes’ front door. He banged on it.

Mycroft opened it a moment later. He was wearing a burgundy dressing gown. “John. The hour is not precisely –”

“Where’s Sherlock?” John interrupted.

Mycroft went still. “Sherlock.”

“It’s Christmas Eve. He’s not back yet.”

“Yes…” Mycroft pressed his lips together. “John… why don’t you come in?” he held the door open.

 

*

 

“I don’t get it,” John said, hands around his mug of tea. A plate of half-eaten toast and marmalade sat in front of him at the table. “So… he’s ill?”

“Not ill, exactly,” Mycroft sipped his coffee. “Unwell, would be a better descriptor. It’s a difficult process, the first time, I understand.”

“So… it doesn’t happen to everyone?”

“Only to omegas. When they’re about this age.”

“Girls as well as boys?”

“Indeed.”

John stared at the table.

Mycroft let him sit quietly, for a moment.

“When will he be back?”

“Soon. Maybe tonight. It’s not an exact science.”

John sat back. “I don’t get why he couldn’t come home, though. Does everyone go to these… what did you call them?”

“Heat Suites? No, only those who can afford it. Sherlock had been unwell at school, the school contacted out parents, and they arranged it.”

“But how did they know that that’s… what it was?”

“Sherlock’s symptoms.”

“Which were?”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “I really think you ought to talk to your parents about this sort of thing.”

“They’re both betas,” John said. “I don’t understand any of this. Sherlock’s grown up, now?”

“In one respect. His body is still that of a child, and only the most brutal mind would dream of…” Mycroft stopped.

John wasn’t stupid. “Of what?”

Mycroft sighed, and steepled his fingers. “Sherlock can have children, now. He can, medically, have children. But he isn’t sixteen for more than another year. He can’t, legally, be bonded.”

“Legally… but my sister said it can happen whatever an omega says.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft said. “But there could be consequences that most people would rather avoid.”

John scrubbed over his eyes. “Ok, so Sherlock’s gone through omega-puberty. And he’s coming home later. That’s all I need to know, is it?”

Mycroft looked at him for a long time.

John stared back. “Isn’t it?”

Mycroft pushed his coffee cup away. “John, I am sorry.”

“For… what?”

“I am sorry, but… you won’t be able to come around here, anymore.”

“…what?!”

“Our parents will forbid it. I know this. I know it. I am sorry.”

John shook his head. “But… I’m not going to hurt him!”

“I know.”

“Then… why?” John heart felt as if it would break.

Mycroft gave him the saddest smile he had ever seen. “I know you would not hurt him. Because I know how you feel about him. How he feels about you. And how impossible that is for you both.”

John felt his eyes prickle. And his throat felt very tight, pain aching right up to his ears.

“Sherlock cannot be with you anymore,” Mycroft said. “His future is set out. There is nothing I can do.”

John pushed his chair back. He grabbed his coat, and zipped it up as he marched to the front door, his shoes stomping on the floorboards ad he went. He was furious, angry tears threatening as he sniffed painfully.

Then he stopped.

Hand on the door-handle.

He looked around, at Mycroft, who still looked utterly stricken.

John sniffed again, and wiped his eye. “You said his future is set.”

“I did.”

“And it can’t involve me? So…. So, answer me this: Does it involve Cam?”


	9. Chapter 9

 

John was still awake when the hall clock gently chimed for midnight.

 _Christmas Day_ , he thought to himself. He turned over for the hundredth time that night, and wondered if his parents had put his presents under the tree. It didn’t matter. The thought of Christmas made him feel sick.

 

_“Sherlock will be allowed to spend time with Cam, yes.”_

_John glared. “What the… what the hell, Mycroft? Is this – is this some sort of arranged marriage?”_

_“That would be illegal,” Mycroft said, bitterly. “Bonds cannot be arranged, as of ten years ago. Omegas and alphas must choose one another consensually.”_

_“But sometimes they don’t.”_

_“And in those cases, there are consequences.” Mycroft paused. “If the omega chooses to press charges.”_

_John shook his head. “Why does Cam get to see him, but I don’t? And don’t give me that_ family friend _crap.”_

_Mycroft dragged a hand over his hair. “John… Sherlock is such a special commodity –”_

_“What does that mean?”_

_“He’s such a special person,” Mycroft corrected himself, “that people have been… concerned, for him, since he was born. There’s a lot of fear surrounding him.”_

_“They’re afraid of him?”_

_“For him. And… sometimes, that fear turns into overprotectiveness, which may be misplaced. You remember how he did not know how to play, when you first met? He had been wrapped in cotton wool his whole life. He still is, to a certain extent. Our parents think they are doing the right thing.”_

_John blinked. “You’ve lost me. What do you mean? Is – is Sherlock going to…” he didn’t know how to finish his question._

_Mycroft gave a sad smile. “Have you ever had someone decide something for you because they thought they were sparing you from something worse?”_

 

John thumped his pillow. Everything was so mixed up.

There was a gentle _tap tap_ at his window, and John nearly fell out of bed in shock. He twisted around in the duvet, and went over to the window, peeping through the curtains.

Sherlock grinned at him. “It’s cold,” he whispered. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas.” John silently undid the window, and Sherlock climbed inside as John got back into bed. Sherlock fastened the catch, and stood, barefoot in his pyjamas, rubbing his arms in the centre of the room.

He looked pointedly at John’s bed.

John raised his eyebrows. “Are you allowed?”

“Don’t you start,” Sherlock sighed, getting under the covers. He smelled of that sour lime shower gel he liked to use, though maybe John’s bedding left something to be desired, as Sherlock sniffed the duvet, and the pillow, several times.

“Does it stink, or something?” John asked.

“No,” Sherlock murmured back. “It’s nice…” he pulled the covers up to his chin, and looked at John. “Hi.”

“Hey,” John said. “So.”

“Yes…”

“Mycroft told me.”

Sherlock blushed. “I know. He told me you knew.” He glanced at John’s eyes, in the dark. “Sorry.”

“What for? For having your… thing? Or… not being allowed over, anymore? Which, I’ve got to say, is working out great so far.”

They both laughed softly.

“Both. All of it. I didn’t… I didn’t know that’s what they’d say. I was angry. I am.”

“You came over,” John smiled. “That’s not changed. Actually…” he leant up on an elbow. “You seem the same, to me.”

Sherlock sighed. “That’s because you’re still immature.”

“Oi.”

“You know what I mean. Your scent receptors aren’t developed yet, and your hormones haven’t started raging. Adults can tell. I had to endure a thorough scenting from Mycroft when I got home.”

“Ew, why?”

“Because I’m not a baby anymore,” Sherlock shrugged. “The hierarchy in the house is a bit… tense, at the moment.”

“Why?”

“Because a new omega has shown up. Daddy and Mycroft have been snapping at each other, and Mummy is off with me because she’s got a mate and I haven’t… It’ll be fine in a couple of days, so they said at the hospital.”

John frowned. “But… your brother and your dad…wouldn’t…”

“Oh,” Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “Nothing like that. It’s just status in the family group.” He pushed John’s duvet off his face a little. “I’m at the bottom, so no change there. Probably why it’s not bothering me.”

John shifted on his mattress. “Sherlock… I’ve got to ask. What’s going on with Cam?”

“Cam?” Sherlock looked so surprised John felt stupid, for a moment. “What about him?”

“Well, he’s allowed to see you. And I’m not.”

“He’s not exactly a threat, is he?”

“And I am?”

There was an unpleasant silence.

“You’re not a threat to me, John,” Sherlock said.

“They think I am.”

“It’s… uh,” Sherlock put a hand over his eyes. “It’s nothing _personal_. It’s just… young alphas, like what you’ll be, soon, they tend to be a bit… keen. And some of them… aren’t very nice.”

“I’m nice!” John hissed.

“I know that, but my parents don’t,” Sherlock hissed back. “I know you’re not going to – to force me into anything, even if I am running around your back garden in my pants.”

John was very glad it was dark, because he could feel himself going bright red. “So…. Tell them that!”

“They wouldn’t listen. Now I’m… now I’ve had a – a heat…” Sherlock squirmed with embarrassment, “they’re acting like I’m going to fall into bed with the first alpha I come across.”

John spluttered. “Well. You sort of have.”

“Oh. You don’t count.”

Hurt throbbed through John’s chest, unexpectedly. “Thanks. I thought I did count, anyway, if I’m such a concern?”

“Only to them.”

“So, I don’t count to you.”

“No.”

John didn’t know what to say. He suddenly felt rather angry, though he knew better than to show it. If Sherlock had been told that alphas were brutes and nasty, he wasn’t going to reinforce that stereotype. “So, what happens now?”

Sherlock snorted, oblivious to what John had been thinking. “Nothing has to change, as far as I’m concerned. They can’t stop me sneaking out.”

“If you don’t get caught.”

“Yes, that’s true. But…” Sherlock turned onto his side, so he and John were face to face. “I don’t want what’s happened to me to stop us being friends.”

“It won’t, if you don’t want it to.” John smiled. “I just… I wish I knew what Cam’s done to earn everyone’s trust. I’ve never hurt you. And I never will. You – you do know that, don’t you?”

“Of course I do.”

They stared at each other.

 _I don’t get why you’re ok with this_ , John thought. _I don’t get why you don’t think he might be anything more than some old man who buys you nice presents. Someone’s told you alphas grow up to be awful, but somehow that doesn’t include him? What makes him so special… What makes him so special to you?_

John’s stomach contracted, then. _What if… what if Cam really_ is _special, to Sherlock? What if all this time I’ve been thinking he’s some creepy old man, and Sherlock’s been… falling for him?_

He badly wanted to take Sherlock’s hand, but didn’t.

The clock downstairs struck one.

“I should go,” Sherlock whispered. His eyes were closed. He looked pale and peaceful, in the moonlight.

“Mm.” John just looked at him. “You look cosy.”

“Your bed smells amazing.”

“If you say so…” John raised a hand, and brushed Sherlock’s curls off his face, without thinking about it.

Sherlock’s eyes opened. “John?”

“Just… your hair. In your face.” John said quickly.

Sherlock blinked, and touched where John’s hand had been on his forehead.

“Sorry,” John added.

“No, it’s… fine.” Sherlock whispered. “Just… unexpected.” His lips moved almost silently in the gloom.

“You didn’t think I was being a lecherous alpha, then?” John breathed back.

Sherlock shook his head. “No, I… didn’t.”

“I don’t want you to think that about me.” John sat up. “Even if that’s what you’re told. But that’s up to you.”

Sherlock sat up, as well. “John…”

“It’s ok,” John sighed. “I get why… just try to remember that you already know me, yeah? I’m John. We’re best friends. And I’m not going to turn into someone else just because you’ve grown up a bit. You being a – an omega… that’s not why I want to hang out with you. You do know that?”

Sherlock stared at him.

“Right?”

There was a sudden cough from the bedroom across the landing. Sherlock quickly threw back the covers, and undid the window.

“Be careful!” John waved a hand.

“Careful’s boring,” Sherlock grinned, and quickly shimmied across the sill towards the guttering, so he could get back onto the roof of his own house.

John clicked the window shut, and got into bed, laying still and feigning sleep, in case someone should look in.

No one did.

And the next time John opened his eyes, it was Christmas Morning, and Harry was throwing a stocking at his face.


	10. Chapter 10

Some things were massively different. Others were only subtly. Sherlock noticed as he stood in church on Christmas Day that a couple of men glanced at him as he walked to the family pew. One, younger one, gave him a little smile.

Sherlock returned it, and watched the teenage alpha go bright red before looking hurriedly back at his hymn-book.

 _I did that_ , Sherlock thought to himself as he took his seat. It was strange – the way people had talked, you’d think he would be having to leave the house under armed guard. But this wasn’t much different from before.

After the service, Sherlock stopped behind in the yard with Mycroft as their parents talked to some of the friends they only saw at these sorts of events, being overly polite and cheery.

“It’s cold,” Sherlock said unnecessarily. His breath fogged in front of his face. His toes were starting to feel the bite of the temperature, too. “Why do they do this charade?”

“From what I understand, it’s a sort of societal requirement, once you get to a certain point in life,” Mycroft unwound his scarf, and wrapped it around Sherlock’s neck, tucking it down his collar. “Better?”

“Fanks,” Sherlock said from inside the scarf. He watched as the alpha boy he’d seen earlier left the church with his parents. He didn’t spot Sherlock, but went over to Violet and Siger with his parents, who were both male. Sherlock’s mother and father smiled politely and said something, before both families moved on. “Who’re they?” Sherlock asked.

“That’s Mr Trevor, and his mate,” Mycroft said. “That must be their youngest… They’ve got two older boys in university.”

“What do they do? The family?”

“Oh, something in construction, I believe. They had something to do with building the new houses around the village not so long ago.”

Sherlock watched the family walk over to their car. “Their son goes to John’s school, then?”

“I think so, why?”

“I just… I never really know who John is with, at school. I suppose he doesn’t know for me, either…” Sherlock rubbed his gloved hands together. “It’s weird.”

Mycroft followed his gaze as the car pulled away. “Yes… I do wonder if a taste of state-school might have done you good, but you can’t deny you’ve got greater opportunities where you are.”

“Mm.” Sherlock looked up as their parents walked over. “Mummy, can we go? I’m frozen.”

“Yes, darling…” Violet fished for her car keys in her handbag.

Siger looked curiously at Sherlock. “Sherlock… do you know Victor Trevor, at all?”

Sherlock shook his head. “No. I was just asking Mycroft who they were, actually. Is Victor Trevor the one in construction?”

Siger laughed gently. “No, no, that’s their boy. Their youngest. Michael and David are the couple. They were asking about you, actually.”

The feeling of power and surety flooded through Sherlock again. He did that! With only a look! Who else could say they had such control over a stranger? Sherlock was about to say something about how easy it was to make the teenager blush, when something surfaced in his brain.

_There’s many an omega bonded against their will because they led alphas on. But you’re not like them, are you?_

His mouth snapped shut. Was that what that feeling was? That powerful feeling, being able to make a boy blush and ask after you? Was that… leading him on? Sherlock squirmed a little as he got into the car, thinking with sudden shame of being asked for – they had _asked for him_ – by strangers. They’d wanted him, because he’d smiled at that boy. That boy wanted him.

Sherlock had made it happen.

He suddenly felt very hot, and stripped the scarf off, his face burning.

“Are you alright?” Mycroft asked, picking the scarf off the seat. “You look a bit peaky.”

“I do hope you’re not getting a cold,” Violet sighed. “We need you well for the New Years party.”

“I’m alright,” Sherlock croaked, sitting back in the seat. “What – what were they asking about me?”

“Oh, their son had taken a little shine to you,” Violet said. “Wanted to know if you were still at school. We told them you were, of course.”

“What did they say?”

“Just nice to meet us, and hopefully they’ll see you again.”

Sherlock relaxed a little. They were just being friendly.

“Of course,” Siger added, “if anyone does ask anything like that, Sherlock, you’d do well to make sure they know you’re spoken for.”

There was a silence as dark and empty as a grave.

“What the hell do you mean?” Sherlock asked. “I’ve not –”

“I mean, it’s a good way to put people off,” Siger said. “Say you’ve got a boyfriend. Then they won’t bother you.”

“Oh,” Sherlock put a hand to his chest. “I thought you meant… there was something you hadn’t told me!”

His parents laughed. “Oh, Sherlock,” Violet said. “Those sort of old-fashioned betrothals are illegal. We wouldn’t do that to you, darling.”

“No,” Siger said. “When the time comes, we want you to choose someone who’s going to cherish you, look after you, and love you.”

Sherlock frowned. “Right.”

“It’s always difficult, choosing who to spend the rest of your life with,” Violet said. “But we know you’ll choose someone who’ll treat you like a prince, value you. You’re special, Sherlock. You need someone who recognises that. And not everyone will, I’m sorry to say. Some people will want to just… use you. You need someone who will always recognise your value, and give you opportunities.”

“The last thing you need is to be trapped with some alpha who doesn’t understand what makes you special. Who just thinks you’re an ordinary man,” Siger added. “You’re not ordinary, Sherlock. You’re not like everyone else, and so you shouldn’t be with just anyone.”

Sherlock nodded, and turned to look out of the window. “I’m sure I’ll… do that. Find someone, I mean. It’s not like I’ve got a deadline to keep to, is it?”

“No, darling. You’ll know when you know. Sometimes, it’s about realising that that special person is right in front of your eyes. And you don’t have to look far at all.”

 

*

 

Sherlock drew the bow over the strings of his Stradivarius. The violin’s last note played out perfectly into the room, vibrating through the air with a melancholy finale.

The applause came as he gave a small bow, and moved away from the middle of the room to the edge as his parents’ guests began circulating again. He carefully put the instrument away, and closed the lid.

“Beautiful.”

Sherlock flinched, and turned. “Cam.”

Cam smiled. “Good to see it’s being put to good use,” he nodded at the violin case.

“Oh! Yes. Thank you,” Sherlock smiled. “I don’t practice on it. I only use it for performances.”

“You should practice on it. Get a feel for how it sounds, so your performance comes more naturally.”

“Yes, but if I dropped it –”

“Then I would buy you another.”

Sherlock stared.

Cam shrugged. “It’s only money, Sherlock. It can’t buy you happiness, but it can bring you some small pleasures.”

“I suppose.” Sherlock put the violin case on the sideboard, to save it being knocked, regardless. “Um. Did you… have a good Christmas?”

“Yes, thank you. I went to Switzerland. The place looked like a Christmas cake.”

“Were you skiing?”

“No, that is for men who don’t mind broken bones. No, I was merely resting. Thinking.” He looked at Sherlock. “I notice you’ve been busy this winter.”

Sherlock could feel his cheeks prickling. “Um. I…”

“I meant with your studies. Your report from school was beside the fridge. I hope you don’t mind, but I had a read of it whilst I waited for my turn at the champagne.”

“Oh!” Sherlock wanted to kick himself. Maturing as an omega wasn’t on everyone’s mind, of course it wasn’t. “No, I don’t mind. It’s only… I mean, grades…”

“Top of the class,” Cam raised a finger. “As expected, of course. Is there anything you can’t do, Sherlock?”

“Football,” Sherlock said without thinking. “I don’t go out for games. Not many of us do, actually.”

“Well, in my opinion, anyone who allows their omega child outside for rough sports is asking for the worst,” Cam shrugged. He snatched a glass of wine from one of the wandering waiting staff. “I suppose to some families, their value isn’t known.”

“Omega girls aren’t so rare, though,” Sherlock frowned.

“True. But the omega as a being, without what’s in their trousers, is always cherished. Or should be. They are nature’s perfect form. A body that performs miracles, and exists to make other people happy. You make people happy with your music, don’t you? Your mind? It makes your parents happy to see you succeed?”

Sherlock nodded. “I think they are.”

“I know it. And so am I. You please me, and that’s why I say play on your Stradivarius every day, if it suits you. You deserve to be… not spoilt, because I could never find it in myself to _spoil_ you, but…” he cast around for the right word. Then smiled. “Indulged,” he said.

Sherlock laughed. “My mother says I’m indulged too much.”

“Mothers always say that. But I bet she would be unhappy if _some_ of your whims were indulged?”

Sherlock thought of the boy in church. Of his chemistry textbooks upstairs. Of John. “I don’t know.”

“Siger told me about the Trevors,” Cam tutted. “Oh, Sherlock.”

“I…”

“You see what I meant? About alphas? It makes me almost ashamed to be counted as one of them. Lecherous. Taking liberties. Why – I am sure you thought there was nothing wrong with being coquettish, but…”

Sherlock blushed. “I didn’t do anything. I just looked at him.”

“And...?”

“…and smiled, I suppose. Not even a proper smile.”

“Ah,” Cam put a hand over his eyes for a moment. “But a smile is an invitation, is it not?”

Sherlock wanted to say _not_. But they had gone to his parents after the service… oh god. He _had_ done that. After everything, he’d been suggestive. “I – I didn’t think…”

“But you will now, won’t you?” Cam put a hand on his shoulder. “I know you’re a good boy, Sherlock. I know you’re saving yourself. But you must remember that the only person truly interested in your virtue is the person who does not try to lure you into their bed, into their arms. They will wait for you. Not go begging to your parents like they are trying to arrange some betrothal. No – they will wait for you to see what’s before you.”

Someone clinked a glass, loudly. “Five minutes, everyone!”

Sherlock checked his watch. “That went fast.”

“And a new year beckons,” Cam offered his arm to Sherlock, who took it. “Let us hope that you have a wonderful year being fifteen, and everything life has to offer.” He released him as they got closer to the large screen showing Big Ben.

Sherlock stood, in the crowd of adults, suddenly feeling very alone.

He wondered if John was awake.

John…

He had never been lured into John’s bed.

He’d gone there willingly.

What did that make him?

What would Cam say – what would anyone say – if it ever got out?

“… THREE, TWO, ONE… HAPPY NEW YEAR!”

Popper and streamers went off, and everyone turned to embrace the person next to them. Sherlock watched as Cam shook hands with some banker or other. Violet and Siger were kissing and scenting, Mycroft was hugging some old aunt of theirs.

Sherlock had no one.

“Oh, you can’t be left out,” Cam offered a hand. “Happy New Year, Sherlock.”

Sherlock shook it. “Happy New Year.”

Cam beamed, and stroked a hand over Sherlock’s hair, cupping the back of his head. “I wish you all the luck in the world this year, my boy.”

Sherlock nodded, and smiled. “Thank you. And – and you.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter contains a sexual assault. Be mindful of your own triggers and wellbeing.

John meant to wake up early on Sherlock’s birthday, and go over to his bedroom window to give him his present before his parents came in to wish him many happy returns. But, as luck would have it, he overslept. He woke up with a start at half past nine, and pelted to the front side of the house in time to see Sherlock’s dad de-frosting his car. They were obviously going out for the day.

John could have kicked himself. Sherlock was usually back at school for his birthday, but it just happened that the holidays had fallen right this year for both of them still to be at home. John had wanted to give Sherlock a present.

He watched out the landing window as Mr Holmes cleared the last of the frost, and went back into the house. It was a bitterly cold day. The puddles on the pavement were frozen over, and John’s breath kept on fogging up the glass.

After about ten more minutes, a purple bundle of wool came tottering out of the house next door. That had to be Mrs Holmes. Sherlock followed, in a fitted wool coat and the scarf John had got him, that Christmas before.. John smiled. He knew he’d picked something Sherlock would use.

Whether the fogging-up window gave him away, or whether Sherlock had a sixth sense he didn’t know, but John grinned as Sherlock glanced up, and his eyes widened.

John held his wrist up, and tapped it. _What time_?

Sherlock looked back at the car, and folded his arms. His right hand’s fingers could be seen. He flashed them open twice, then made a peace sign for ‘two’. Five and five and two. Midnight, then.

John watched him clamber into the car. Mr Holmes started the engine, and the car pulled slowly out of the driveway.

 

*

 

“I don’t see why we can’t go somewhere I actually _want_ to go,” Sherlock huffed from the back seat.

“You’ve been invited,” his mother said. “After everything Cam has done for you, don’t you think it’s polite to call in when you’re invited?”

“But…” _it’s my birthday_.

“Sherlock, you’re fifteen, today. I do hope you’re not about to start fussing like a baby.” Violet sighed. “Look, you’re so rarely here for your birthday, and it’s not as though we’ve asked a lot of you during these holidays, is it?”

“…no.”

“We’ll be there before you know it. And you have fun there, don’t you? You always come away with something.”

Sherlock just looked out of the window. His face suddenly felt very hot, though he knew his mother would be cross if he pressed it against the glass.

The drive didn’t take long, and they were soon getting out of the car. Cam’s house looked grand in the frost and leftover snow, and there was a large Christmas tree looming in one window.

“I thought he went away for Christmas,” Sherlock said.

“Doesn’t mean people don’t like to get trimmed up,” his father said. “Makes the place look lived-in.”

One of the staff let them in, and Sherlock was just hanging his coat up when Cam came out of a room, taking his reading glasses off.

“Do forgive me,” he smiled, “I was reading, and listening to music. Franklin told me you’d arrived. Mulled wine? Sherlock – fruit juice?” Cam nodded at a waiting maid, who bobbed a curtsey, and vanished into the kitchens. “Go through, go through, the fire is lit in the drawing room, so do be careful… and there’s something for you, Sherlock, on the table…”

Sherlock followed his parents into the room. It was very warm, and he rolled his cashmere jumper sleeves up to the elbows. On the coffee table, surrounded by plush sofas, was a small pile of three gifts. He blushed.

“Thank you,” he said, as Cam put a hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t thank me yet. Open them.”

Sherlock went over. His mother snapped a picture of him picking up the medium-sized gift. It seemed the safest place to start. He unwrapped it quickly, revealing a heavy leather vanity case. The lid lifted to reveal deep central compartment, and several palettes of makeup and brushes that neatly fanned out of the case on little hinges. It looked very expensive, but Sherlock didn’t wear makeup.

He put on a winning smile anyway, and shone it at Cam. “Thank you. I love the colours.”

“I had them pick them out, based on your appearance,” Cam said, lounging on one of the sofas. “Don’t be precious with it, it’s to play with, as much as anything else. Don’t you dare save it all for a special occasion.” He accepted his mulled wine from the maid. “Nothing worse than an omega waiting until a party to try putting their face on, and then they realise they haven’t the faintest idea what they’re doing, and end up looking like a clown. Less is more, don’t you agree?”

“Yes,” Siger said. “Some young girls look a fright.”

Violet didn’t say anything. Her face was curiously blank.

Sherlock picked up the smallest gift. It was the size of a book. He opened it (his mother quickly taking another picture as he did so), and found it was indeed a book. A first-edition of _The Trials of William Atwood_ – a classic novel Sherlock had only heard about. It was supposed to have been written by an omega, and had been hailed as a historic work for decades before the author was discovered to have been a fraud, and an alpha who had used the book to spread his opinions about omegas throughout society.

Sherlock didn’t know what to make of it. “…thank you.”

“You don’t have to read it,” Cam said. “I saw it for auction, and it tickled me. You know, a lot of the myths we as a society keep about omegas actually stem from that book?”

“R-really?”

“Oh, yes. The whole servitude angle, the concept of education… it’s all there. Of course, some of it was a positive influence, but I think you would have something to say if your parents pulled you out of school, wouldn’t you?”

Sherlock nodded. He put the book down, and moved the largest parcel over. It was obviously a laptop, but Cam didn’t need to know he knew that. He unwrapped it carefully, making a false cry of surprise at the contents as he lifted the box out.

“Careful!” His mother cried.

“My word…” his father breathed.

Cam sat smugly on his sofa, enjoying the fuss he had created.

“Sherlock, this is a wonderful present,” his mother said, almost stroking the box. “Say thank you. Properly.”

Sherlock hesitated.

“Go on.”

Biting his lip, he walked around the low coffee table to the alpha, and, keeping his head down to avoid eye contact, said: “Thank you so much. Cam. I… I really do love it.”

Cam uncrossed his legs, put his wine down, and reached up. He put a cold finger to Sherlock’s chin, and made him raise it. Their eyes met. “You are welcome, my boy. I would have got you a second violin, but you’ve taken such care of the first…” he laughed.

Sherlock’s parents joined in.

“You’re a lucky lad,” Siger said, making Sherlock turn, and the touch to his chin fall away. “You really are. When I was your age, I didn’t have anything like this.”

“You lived in Grandad’s manor,” Sherlock pointed out. “It had fourteen bedrooms. Mycroft told me.”

Cam laughed, again. “Such cheek! I’m glad to see you haven’t beaten that out of him.”

“Not yet,” Siger’s face was like thunder.

“Still. Hard times are softening, now, I hope?”

“Yes. Thank you,” Siger added, as an afterthought.

Cam raised his glass, slightly.

 

*

 

They stayed for a long time. Longer than Sherlock would have liked. They ended up having lunch (Sherlock didn’t like anything on his plate, but his mother was glaring daggers at him, and he knew better than to leave everything. He managed to get most of it from his mouth into his napkin, and ball it up and stick it onto his plate when the staff came to take it away), and then Cam and his father started discussing politics, or business, he didn’t know it was all so dull. Sherlock’s mother went for a lie down in one of the guest rooms, and Sherlock wandered the house, touching things he knew he wasn’t supposed to touch.

He ended up in the library, looking up at the books, and the framed certificates on the walls.

“Thinking about it?”

He flinched, and turned to see Cam watching him from the doorway.

“About…?”

“University.” Cam nodded at the certificates, but didn’t come over. “Not long until you’ll be applying. If you had the ambition to go.”

“I’m not sure if it’s worth it,” Sherlock said. “It’s… I’d be good at it. But…”

Cam hummed. “You’re too smart not to do _something_ with your life.” He walked over. “Your parents would like to see you succeed.”

“They’d like to be grandparents,” Sherlock snorted.

“That’s not a bad thing to want,” Cam said, gently. “Children are a blessing. And you’d do a fine job of raising them.”

“I don’t like children. Little ones.” Sherlock glanced at the man beside him. “I don’t think.”

“Really. You won’t find many alphas agreeable to that.” Cam smiled.

Sherlock blushed. “You… don’t have… do you?”

“No. Like you, I never wanted the patter of tiny feet. Nor the mess, nor the crumbs. No, it’s difficult to find an omega who doesn’t want children. A companion, is what I crave. Someone of equal intelligence, who accepts what I have to offer, and makes the most of it. Have you thought about Oxford?”

Sherlock was caught off-guard. “The uni? I… no, I don’t even know what I’d study…”

“My alma mater,” Cam said. “I promise, you would have no problems with your application, with my backing. Even as an omega.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that omegas who attend university require a sponsor,” Cam said. “A mate, or parent, or friend, who promises to take responsibility for them, and their expenses. A sort of guarantor.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“I don’t suppose they talk a lot about university at your finishing school.”

Sherlock looked away. They didn’t. They _did_ talk a lot about babies and food technology and household accounting. Out of all of Sherlock’s classmates, he only knew one other omega who was interested in going on to higher education. He wondered if Molly knew she needed a sponsor.

“Sherlock,” Cam said, interrupting his thoughts, “you know…” his face suddenly looked rather worried. “You know I am very fond of you? Your parents are such good friends of mine, and I appreciate you coming to spend time with me. I know you must find it very dull.”

Sherlock could hardly deny it. “Some things. Not all.”

“What is it you like?”

Sherlock thought. “Learning things,” he decided. He sighed. “It sometimes feels like you’re the only one who _tells_ me anything. I didn’t know about a sponsor for uni. I didn’t know about how alphas think. I didn’t know… no one tells me this stuff, they just expect me to know it, but you don’t. That’s what I like.” He could feel himself going very red.

Cam nodded. “What else would you like to know?”

“Everything.” Sherlock stuck his chin out.

Cam smiled. “I knew you would say that. But you know… it’s difficult to pass on knowledge about _everything_ when I only see you now and again.”

Sherlock looked away. “I know.”

“And with your parents around, I can hardly ignore them. It would be rude. They are my guests too. You don’t want them to be unhappy, do you?”

Sherlock shook his head.

Cam put a finger to his own mouth, thinking. Then snapped his fingers. “A suggestion, then. You come here at weekends, in school time, and I can give you tuition. What do you think?”

“Um…”

“Access to the library, and any questions answered,” Cam said. “And I do mean any. You’re nearly a man, Sherlock. Do you really want to be treated like a child for your whole life?”

“No,” he said quickly. “But… I’d need a chaperon, and I have my violin practice, and…”

Cam’s face fell. “I see.”

“It’s not that I don’t want tuition,” Sherlock said quickly, “but my parents… they won’t even let me see John anymore, and –”

“John? Who’s John?”

Sherlock cursed himself. “A friend. He… isn’t allowed over, anymore.”

“Whyever not?”

“Because he’s an alpha. He’s unpresented, still, but they said he couldn’t come over, and it’s like…”

“Like maturing has made you a commodity, in their eyes?” Cam suggested.

Sherlock nodded.

“Oh, my boy…” Cam reached, and cupped the side of Sherlock’s head. “For them not to see what a special, delightful, joy of a person you are…”

Sherlock’s throat felt very tight, all of a sudden. “I…”

“Friends come and go,” Cam said. “But family is supposed to be forever. Caring for you, and about you. And they’re making you unhappy?”

“They’re just trying to do their best,” Sherlock whispered.

“Their best isn’t good enough.” Cam’s thumb went over Sherlock’s soft cheek, smearing a hot tear over the skin. “Not for you. You’re worth so much more. God, am I the only one who can see it?” His eyes looked desperate, behind those rectangular frames. The pale irises were thin around deep black pupils, which darted over Sherlock’s face. “Am I the only one who tells you how wonderful you are?”

Sherlock couldn’t speak. His jaw had gone stiff. His entire body was rooted to the floorboards, and he knew what was going to happen, even as it started happening, and he couldn’t move, didn’t want to move, didn’t want to not move, couldn’t remember how to breathe…

Cam kissed him.

It was warm, and soft, and dry, and quick, but it was a kiss. Right on the mouth.

The alpha drew back, quickly. “See what you do to me? See what you _make_ me do? Tell me you don’t do this for everyone, Sherlock?”

Sherlock didn’t know what he’d done. He shook his head.

“Oh, thank god.” Cam exhaled, and went in again.

This time, the grip on Sherlock’s head tightened, moving to the base of his skull. It didn’t feel bad. Neither did the kissing. It felt like presses to his mouth, that were a little damp, but not terrible. It felt like having your mouth wiped with a hanky, dampened with spit.

“You’re only like this for me. Aren’t you? Only for me, because you know, don’t you? You know what you’re doing?” Cam’s words were breath on Sherlock’s ear.

Sherlock dully realised he couldn’t really feel his body, anymore. He felt like a fuzz of white cloud. It was happening, yes, but it wasn’t really happening because he couldn’t control it. He knew what he was doing. Cam said so. Whatever this was, he’d done it.

Sherlock had done it.

The kisses got firmer, and a little scratchy, and Sherlock’s brain engaged enough for him to open his mouth, to say something, but then there was a moan, right into his mouth, from a voice that wasn’t his own, and there was a tongue, and it was frightening, and the white fuzzing sensation got worse, and Sherlock knew his knees had buckled, and Cam was still there, helping him to the floor, pressure on his body, a tightness around his wrist, and something happening, and still those words kept coming, like a drum-beat –

“…you want this, you do, you’ve given it up to me, you’ve done this to me, Sherlock, you’ve made me like this, you see? You made this happen, you did it to me…”

Then Sherlock was sitting up.

And Cam was handing him a glass of water.

And the rushing noise in his ears had stopped.

Cam shook his head. “Sherlock, you mustn’t do things like that.”

Sherlock stared.

“I remember what it’s like, being your age, and newly matured. I remember. But you mustn’t act like that. You can’t. Not everyone will behave like me. Not everyone will take care of you.” He tapped the glass of water. “I think you need a moment to yourself. You made me do that, Sherlock, you know that? What would your mother say? Your father? Your friends?”

Sherlock suddenly felt sick, and put the shaking glass of water down.

“I thought so. But we don’t have to let them know. I’m a grown man, Sherlock, I can keep my counsel. What you did to me, it won’t happen again. Will it?”

“…no,” Sherlock whispered.

“Good boy. You can be such a good omega. We don’t have to let anyone know about this slip-up.” Cam patted his hair.

Sherlock let him.

“Good boy. I’ll tell your parents you’ll be along directly. And we’ll organise that tuition, yes? If you’re still thinking of university, of course.” Cam smiled again, and left Sherlock alone in the library.

Sherlock lifted the front of his jumper to his nose.

It smelled of alpha.

And it calmed him.

And he hated it.


	12. Chapter 12

John saw the Holmes’ car arrive home about six. He didn’t see anyone get out of the vehicle, as he was at the dining table at the time, but he heard the car doors slam, and then there was silence. He glanced at the clock. Less than six hours until he would go over to Sherlock, and give him his birthday present. By that time it would nearly be a day late, but at least he could see him before he went off to boarding school later that day.

John looked back at the table, and caught his dad staring at him. “What?”

His dad smiled. “Nothing. Eat your dinner.”

John picked his fork back up.

 

*

 

It was John’s official bed-time when his dad knocked on his bedroom door, and came in to sit at the foot of John’s bed.

“What’s up?” John lowered the book he’d been reading.

John’s dad bit his lower lip for a moment, before speaking. “You like Sherlock, don’t you? Don’t start getting in a flap, you’re fifteen. I know you do.”

“I’m not… we’re not… I mean –”

“If you let me speak,” John’s dad rolled his eyes, “I might be able to finish what I’m saying. I know you like him. I know he sneaks in here, and you to him. Don’t start worrying about that, if I had something to say I’d have said it before now. I figured you’re old enough to know what’ll happen if you fall off the guttering.”

John blushed, and gripped the edges of his book tight.

“Sherlock’s parents have stopped you seeing one another,” his dad went on, “but, since I know you’re keen… did you want me to speak to them?”

“They won’t listen,” John said. “They think I’m going to do something horrible to him. I just want things back like they were, when we could go out and play, and stuff.”

John’s dad gave him a sad smile. “I know. But, Johnny… you are an alpha. You’re going to be one properly before very much longer. Sherlock’s an omega. A boy omega, so a lot of people will want him.”

“… I don’t get it.”

John’s dad suddenly looked uncomfortable. “Look… you know about alphas and omegas, yeah? Have you done that at school?”

John put his book up in front of his face. “I really don’t want to talk about this with you.”

“I’ll take that as a yes. Well, for some people, boy omegas are… especially attractive. You know how some betas prefer men over women? Same sort of thing.”

John lowered his book again. “But alphas don’t all go for omegas. Mum’s a beta.”

“Yes, she is, and I love her, but we aren’t exactly a textbook relationship. The thing is, there just aren’t a lot of omegas. I was in the army, and a bit busy to look for a mate, and then I met your mum and that was more than enough for me. Not all alphas are like that. Some would rather die alone. Some have a lot of mates.”

“What do you mean?”

John’s dad winced. He obviously hadn’t intended the conversation to take this turn. “Some alphas… it’s a status thing, John. You’ll realise what I mean when you mature. Your family dynamic is a small part of it, but then there’s socially as well… high-up alphas often have a lot of omega mates.”

“But you can only bond with one person at a time. That’s what they said in Biology.”

“And that’s true. But some alphas get around that by not actually bonding. They have partners, but…”

John frowned. “But… I thought… when omegas… I thought you had to bond with them?”

“It is possible to resist,” his dad went scarlet.

John looked down at his bedspread. “What does this have to do with Sherlock?”

“His parents will be very aware that he’s… attractive, for want of a better word. They won’t want him to end up being anything less than a bond-mate, and that’s why they don’t want you going over.”

“You think so?”

“I can’t think why else they wouldn’t want you to stay together,” John’s dad said. “If arrangements were still a thing, that could have been something we talked about. But I think they’re scared, John. I think they’re worried for their son’s future. Can you understand that?”

John bit his thumbnail. “I don’t… I understand, I mean, but… Why can’t Sherlock just decide what he wants?”

“…do you like him?”

“I…” John pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I don’t know. I think sometimes, but other times… he’s my best friend.” He dropped his hands down. “I don’t think he sees me like that.”

“Do you see him as an omega?”

“I don’t know what that even means,” John shrugged.

His dad looked almost amused. “You will. But for now… do you want me to speak to Mr and Mrs Holmes? About letting you two be friends in the daylight, again?”

“I guess there’s no point,” John shrugged. “He goes back to school tomorrow.”

“Easter, then.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

John’s dad stood, and ruffled his son’s hair. “Don’t worry about it too much, mate. You’re both just kids. No one’s going to try anything on with either of you. It’d have to be a sick bastard who looked at a child like that. Don’t stop up too late.”

“I won’t.”

“And close the window after you get back, later.”

John grinned.

 

*

 

When his phone had buzzed for midnight, John left his room via the window, and crept along to Sherlock’s house. The gap between their houses was the same, but John’s legs were longer now, and the leap from drainpipe to drainpipe was much easier, now. He inched along to Sherlock’s bedroom, where the curtains were open a crack. John could see a lump under the bedcovers. That had to be Sherlock.

He tapped on the glass.

There was no movement.

 _Was he asleep_?

John tapped again, and the lump turned over, then threw the covers back, and came over, undoing the window silently.

“Took your time,” John whispered, climbing in. “Happy birthday.”

“Thanks.” Sherlock closed the window, and dived back into bed, tucking the covers around himself. John had to perch on the edge of the bed, his socked feet cold. He didn’t say anything, but it was mean of Sherlock not to share the blanket. He usually did.

“Here you go,” John pulled a very squashed and small parcel from his dressing gown pocket. “Sorry, it’s a bit squished. I hope it’s ok.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock took it, and undid the softened paper, balling tiny scraps of it up into his fist as he did so. He worked slowly. John felt rather frustrated. But eventually, the parcel was unwrapped, and the present from John was on top of the bedclothes.

“Do you like it?” John watched Sherlock pick it up.

Sherlock nodded, his eyes suddenly glassy and gleaming.

It was a soft, toy bee. It had a gormless smile on its face, and two dots for eyes, and six dangling string legs, but John thought it was adorable.

“I saw you were reading about bees,” he said. “And I can’t get you a beehive or anything, so I thought… a soft bee…”

Sherlock nodded again, stroking the bee’s fluff with his fingers. He looked as if he might cry.

“Are you ok?” John whispered. “You look a bit… Not a good birthday?”

Sherlock’s curls shook.

“Oh, shit. I’m sorry. Do you want to talk about it?”

Sherlock’s head shook again.

“Oh…” John inched closer.

Sherlock looked pale and drawn in the moonlight, his hands clutching the bee as though it was afraid it might disappear. His shoulders were hunched, and his mouth was turned down.

John raised a hand, and patted him on the shoulder. “Um. You can, if you ever want to. I mean... I can’t do much, but I can listen.” He looked around the room for something to change the subject. His gaze landed on the still-boxed laptop. “Is that a new MacBook?”

“Yeah,” Sherlock murmured. He was still looking at the bee.

“Did you pick that up today? It looks amazing. I wish my parents would get me something half that good.”

“It wasn’t from Mummy,” Sherlock said. “It was from Cam.”

John’s need to pull Sherlock out of his misery came to a grinding halt. “Cam.”

“Mm.”

“So… what – he met you today? Or sent that over?”

“We went to his house.”

John couldn’t speak for a moment. “On your birthday?”

Sherlock nodded.

“…why?”

Sherlock didn’t respond, just gripped the bee so tight it looked to be in danger of exploding.

John tried to organise his thoughts. “So. You went to Cam’s, and he gave you that, and you’re sad because… why?”

Sherlock looked up. His face looked paler and more washed-out that ever. “It… wasn’t a good day. My parents… were just interested in themselves.”

“That sucks,” John said, with conviction. “Taking you to _their_ friend on your special day. And your last day off! It’s crap. You should have just come over to mine.”

“Yeah,” Sherlock finally smiled. “What would we have done?”

“We… we would have gone out,” John said, thinking. “Got coats on, and gone down the woods. Done a campfire in trees, where the ground gets damp so it doesn’t spread. And we could… I don’t know. Try and find some poisonous mushrooms. Or follow that crow that always flew around after us that year. Or so crack some ice puddles. And when it got too cold we could make hot chocolate over the fire. And only go home when the sun started going down. That’s a proper day out.”

Sherlock was smiling properly, now. “Is that what you’ll do on your birthday?”

“I think I’m going to go to the cinema with Harry,” John shrugged. “But it won’t be as good. You really need to go to a school here. Maybe you can after year eleven? The college mum works at is great. And they let you run your own study schedule. We could get the bus in, and hang out in the library between lessons, and we could do projects, and we’d do lots together because we’d both be doing science, yeah?”

Sherlock was nodded. “I’d like that.”

“Then let’s do it. It’s not long away, is it. And by then…” John paused.

“Mm?”

“By then, things might be… Your mum and dad might let us hang out again.” John smiled.

Sherlock’s smile faltered, but he caught it. “I’d like that.”

John patted him on the shoulder again, a warmth surging through his chest as he thought of the two of them, older and happier, working together and laughing, and smiling…

…maybe his dad was right.

He swallowed. Sherlock was still bundled up in the covers, as though he was keeping John at bay.

“I know things will be better, then,” John said. “They have to be.”

Sherlock took a deep breath, but didn’t say anything.

“And… maybe… um.” John rubbed the short hair at the base of his skull. “Sherlock, did you ever… want… I know your dad asked you if we were… but did you ever think…”

“Cam,” Sherlock said suddenly.

John lost his thread. “What? Cam? What does Cam have to do with… anything?”

Sherlock’s knuckles were snow-white. “Cam, today, he was… he was telling me…”

“…telling you what?”

Sherlock’s lips had clamped together. He prized them apart. “Today, he gave me the presents, and then… then, we were talking, and…”

John frowned. “Sherlock, what’re you saying? I – I’m trying to talk to you, and you’re bringing that old man into the conversation. What’s he got to do with anything?”

“I… I want to tell you about him…”

A white-hot burst of pressure swelled in John’s chest. He stood up, and paced away, his limbs suddenly tight with jealousy. Cam! Fucking Cam. That man was _everywhere_ in Sherlock’s life. John couldn’t get away from him…

“I don’t want to hear about him,” John forced out. “Ok? I don’t want to know. I don’t _care_. Sherlock. I was trying to talk to you…”

Sherlock looked as though John had slapped him. His mouth was open, his cheeks red. “I just… I wanted to tell…”

“Don’t bother,” John went for the window. “As mad as it might seem, I don’t really want to know what you and Cam get up to, Sherlock. That’s not why I come over. Have a good term at school.” And he let himself out of the window.

 

*

 

Sherlock lay in the dark, holding the stuffed bee close to his face. It smelled of John.

John…

John hadn’t listened.

Sherlock wasn’t stupid. John couldn’t have known what Sherlock had been going to tell him, and if he had known he would have been even more upset. John liked him.

John would have been upset that Sherlock had done that. He would have been angry with him. But Sherlock had thought he might forgive him. If he’d only listened…

But that didn’t matter. It didn’t matter how Sherlock felt about John, either, because they weren’t allowed to see each other, and Sherlock’s only hope of higher education rested in Cam’s hands, anyway.

Cam’s hands… that had held Sherlock tight, with such fierce need, around his neck and wrist…

Sherlock stared at the ceiling.

Cam must have wanted him very badly. But he’d let him go. That… was a kind thing to do. To make sure Sherlock knew where the boundary was.

Wasn’t it?

Cam liked Sherlock as well, but he hadn’t _made him_ do anything, had he?

He’d stopped. He had stopped.

It was Sherlock’s fault.

He’d have to be careful not to let it happen again.

And he wouldn’t try to tell anyone, ever again.

 


End file.
